OC: Jaron Kalvin (he/him)
Species: Demigod, son of Hermes/Legacy of Aphrodite
Universe: PJO
Note: the previous oneshot about Jaron has a bit of inaccurate stuff. He was not invited to go "home" to his mom, because she was in prison at the time. The rest of that oneshot is true to his lore, though. Anyway have a montage

He was five years old.

“Mama?” he asked. “Why don't I have a dad?”

His mother sighed. “He had things he had to do,” she said. “He's a very important person, and he didn't have time to take care of us. But it's okay.”

He stared at her. “Is he going to come back?”

Lilah Kalvin hesitated. “Someday,” she said. “When you're a little bit older, I'll take you to a place where you might meet him.”

He was six years old.

“We're going to go explore the world,” his mother told him, smiling. Her eyes were bloodshot, as if she'd been crying, but his memories tended to glaze over that part.

He looked back, wide-eyed, and then grinned - a full, oblivious expression that was missing two teeth. “Are we going to go see Mickey Mouse?”

“Of course,” Lilah promised. A lie, but he believed it at the time. “And the dinosaurs.”

He didn't know about the bank coming to collect what they were due. He wouldn't know for a long time.

For now, his eyes shone with joy. “Dinosaurs,” he breathed.

He was seven years old.

“Go on,” Lilah said. “That man looks very nice. Go talk to him.”

He stared at the stranger, then at his mother. “But Mom-”

“Just ask him for twenty dollars,” Lilah purred. “And then bring it back to Mommy so she can have her nice things. You do want me to be happy, don't you?”

He didn't realize until much later that it was not his mother's words that convinced him, but the magic flowing beneath them like an alluring, sparkling stream that was much deeper than it looked. Her voice was too easy to drown in.

He nodded, then slowly approached the stranger. The man was large. He did not look very nice. But he took pity on the disheveled child in front of him and did as asked.

Subconsciously, his words carried the same charm that his mother's had.

He was eight years old.

“Mom? What was Dad like?” he asked, out of the blue. It was only the second time he'd asked.

Lilah’s face darkened. Maybe she was angry, maybe she was sad, maybe a bit of both. “Don't you worry about your father,” she advised. “He left both of us alone. That's all you need to know.”

His memories might have been inaccurate, but he seemed to remember that she was a lot less bitter last time.

He was nine years old.

“Useless,” Lilah hissed. “Failure. How many times have I told you-” she raised her hand.

He flinched, taking the blow. It hurt, but he wouldn't cry. He refused to cry. Crybabies didn't get dinner. “She said no!” he protested. “She told me you were an… addict. What does that even mean?”

Lilah’s eyes flashed. “If they say no, then take it,” she growled. “That's the one thing you're good for. You know how to pickpocket. Use that.”

He shrank back, unable to hide the sharp stab of hurt that pierced his heart.

He was ten years old.

“No! My son! My little boy…”

Each word was like a punch to the gut, not only because of the pain in her voice but also because of the irony. She had told him he was the opposite only minutes ago.

Lilah was sobbing, screaming, struggling. The police had to shove her into the back of the car.

“They're always like that when they're high,” one policeman said to another. “They're confused. They never understand why they're under arrest, they just know that we're trying to take them away from something they think belongs to them.”

Sirens wailed. Lights flashed. People kept talking to him, asking him questions that he didn't know how to answer. “How often does she smoke it? Where does she keep it? How long have you two been living like this? Are you abused?”

The lady from CPS looked down at him. “It's okay, honey,” she said soothingly, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I know this is scary, but we're going to get you somewhere safe, okay?”

Jaron hated the sweetness in her voice. It reminded him too much of his mother. He knew she was trying to be comforting, but the night was too dark, the sirens were too loud, the urge to fight too strong. He jerked away from her.

“What are they gonna do to my mom?” he demanded, glaring up at her. The woman's car keys, he turned over and over in his hand. He wasn't supposed to have them, if course. But he did, because it was habit to steal everything valuable he saw.

“They're taking her to a place where she can learn to be a better person,” the woman said, gently taking her keys back and sliding them into her pocket as if that would keep them safe from him.

“Jail,” he realized. “They're taking her to jail, aren't they?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

He looked back at Lilah, who was now sitting calmly in the back of the police car. “Jail won't make her a better person,” he mumbled.

He was eleven years old.

“I'm Bramble,” the boy said forcefully, slamming his lunch tray down in front of him. His tone was… aggressively friendly. That was the only way to describe it.

He tilted his head. “I'm Jaron.”

“Wow,” Bramble said. “Cool! You like Mario Kart too?” he pointed to his backpack, which had a picture of Mario, Luigi, Peach, and Toad all racing along a rainbow pathway.

He nodded, grinning. “I always play as Baby Luigi. The Magicruiser is the best bike in the whole game.”

“I'm really bad at it,” Bramble admitted. “The place where I live has an arcade game version, but it's not really used very often. And I've accidentally broken it… three times now?”

“You just need more practice,” he assured him.

He was twelve years old.

“Go! Run!” Bramble yelled, and then blew a strange chord into his panpipes. “Up the hill, past the tree. Chiron - he's a centaur, don't freak out - should be on his way.”

“But what about you?” he asked, choosing to ignore the part about the centaur. Bramble had goat legs, and they were being chased by a person with snake trunks. He was pretty sure a horse person would be pretty normal at this point.

“I'll be there in a second,” Bramble said. “After I set this stupid snake lady on fire-”

He didn't question it. He stumbled up the hill and past the tree, like Bramble had commanded, as fast as he could with two skinned knees and probably a broken toe.

Immediately, everything was calm. The strawberry fields dissolved before his eyes.

Bramble was close behind, a little bit scraped up but otherwise fine. They both collapsed on the other side of the hill, laughing with relief. Safe at last.

He was thirteen years old.

“Be careful with it,” Hermes said. “Don't let this get to your head. Three rules: don't lose the crystal, don't alter any timelines,  and don't get caught. Got it?”

He nodded and closed his hand around the crystal. He thought about Camp Half-Blood - the Hermes Cabin, as cramped as it was.

His eyes widened as a portal appeared in front of him.

“Wow,” he breathed, then looked at Hermes. “Thank you.”

“Don't disappoint me,” Hermes warned. "Going to other worlds is dangerous."

He stepped through the portal.

He was fourteen years old.

“Just a warning,” the officer said. “Don't world-hop anymore. It's illegal.”

He frowned. He hadn't even known there was a law regarding interdimensional travel. Who enforced it? This officer, he assumed, but where did the officer live? “Why?”

“Because it alters reality,” the officer explained. “Your very presence in a world where you're not supposed to exist changes how things work there.”

“Oh,” he said.

But where else would he go?

No, he had to keep moving. There was a great big multiverse out there, calling him, begging him to explore it.

It seemed like such a shame to just leave it be.

He was fifteen years old.

“Jaron?” a voice asked.

He turned and locked eyes with Brye.

The son of Apollo showed no expression on his face. Just that ever-present grin, unwavering, cold. He knew there had to be some emotion underneath, but he had never managed to crack the shell.

Slowly, his sword slipped out of his hand. The fight still rang around them. Zeus' Fist was behind them, monsters still streaming out of the Labyrinth. Monsters that he was working with.

He should have known. Even with the armor and the mask he wore more and more often now, he should have known he'd be recognized by someone.

It was just shock at first.

Then came the guilt, like a knife burying itself in his gut.

“I-I'm sorry,” he said. Shame was next. If guilt was a blade, shame was a hand that twisted it.

He picked up his sword and ran, away from Bryson, away from Camp Half-Blood, away from Kronos.

He was good at running.

He was a coward, a filthy coward, and a traitor, too. Useless. Failure. Just like his mother said.

Where would he go? His foster family? No, he'd run away from them to come here two years ago. There was nothing wrong with them, but they'd never take him back.

He was too good at running.

His hand reached into his pocket and closed around the small crystal. It tingled at his touch.

This world had done nothing for him. He had done nothing for it.

Maybe he could start over.

He was sixteen years old.

“What can I do for ya?” The lady at the tattoo parlor asked. She had spiky blonde hair, several nose and ear piercings, and a heart tattooed on her left cheek.

“A feather,” he said. “That's a symbol of freedom and survival, right? On the back of my neck.”

She nodded and flipped through a few pages of the reference book, holding it out for him to choose a design he liked. “A lot of people who get the feather tattoo are trauma survivors or people who have learned to let go. It's a symbol of healing as well.”

He tapped one that caught his eye.

The woman nodded. “I am required to remind you that this is permanent,” she said. “No returns or exchanges. And anywhere around the neck is usually darn painful. You sure about this?”

He snorted. “It's been a while since I've felt sure about anything.”

He was seventeen years old.

“And who are you?” an angry voice demanded from behind him.

He turned. The girl was about his age, with fox ears and a tail, pointing a mallet at him.

For a minute, he just stared.

Dang it. She was cute. And also very murderous-looking.

“Hey there,” he said, overcoming his initial surprise quickly. Instinct told him to say it in a flirty tone, so he said it in a flirty tone. “Mind telling me what world I'm in?”

Her ears flattened and she let out a low hiss. “World-hopping is strictly illegal, Mr. Idiot. In the name of the Code, you're under arrest.”

He waved it off. “Whatever. I don't really feel like doing that right now. What if you told me your name instead, sweetheart?” He winked.

She curled her hand into a fist and punched him in the solar plexus. Hard.

“Ow,” he grunted.

“You will call me no such thing,” she said, straightening up. “My name is Aljak.”