'Deathball'

04-Sep-2030, 1900U

LCDR Percy Jackson, US Navy, Son of Neptune

Legion XII

Oakland, California, USA

Special thanks to @the_prodigal_knight and @146852586a for some excellent ideas!

The Fates must've been having fun, considering that my life consisted of me getting voluntold just about every five minutes: from the continuous quests of my youth, to the crappy details I got at my first platoon in SEAL Team 2 and when I first showed up at DEVGRU, and now to me participating in Deathball... which I had never actually played before.

From my limited understanding, it was similar to paintball, just with acid, poison, and fire. Moreover, paintball gunners were replaced with slingers and archers, along with good old-fashioned "yeeters," to quote some of the legionaries around me.

I had been assigned to Blue Team, which consisted of Cohorts V and X, along with a detachment from Auxiliary Cohort I. Cohorts III and VIII made up Red Team, and were similarly augmented by Auxiliary Cohort I troops. The remainder of the legion was elsewhere for training or university—which was fine by me, considering each side had around 200 personnel.

The teams were mustering at the barracks, where equipment was handed out and strategies were being discussed. Tyson and I, of course, showed up looking rather unprepared—which we were.

"Tribune Steele?" I asked, with a man at least ten years my junior turning around from the discussion. "I'm Percy Jackson, this is Tyson. Consuls assigned us to augment your team."

"What? Uh, just a sec... Carter! Get these two sorted, yeah?"

"Yes, Tribune," a shorter, dark-haired man replied before making his way towards us. He looked like Tom Cruise if he was in his late twenties/early thirties and became a legionary, with the comparison sparking a memory of a conversation earlier in the day.

"Ethan, I presume?"

"Well, yeah!" the man replied with a grin. "Optio Carter, Fifth Cohort's First Century. How'd you know my name?"

"Your wife's an old acquaintance of mine. Met your son this mornin' too."

"Wait... you're the guy that was arguing with Terminus for half an hour? He told me all about that! He also said that you were an undercover Delta Force commando."

"Now where would he get an idea like that?" I asked, trying not to laugh at the description.

"I accidentally let him watch Operation Kayla Mueller with me n' Jules, and you apparently had a pistol and machine gun... is the latter even legal?"

"Yeah, but politicians and bureaucrats ruin everything."

"Huh?"

"Nevermind, nevermind," I quickly replied, wanting to keep myself from falling down a constitutional rabbit hole. "So... Deathball?"

"Basically, it's a fight to the death, so anything goes. You get hit, you run back to the respawn point. You get hit again, you get off the field. But in either case, you get hit badly enough, the medics pull you out faster than you can say 'Fulminata,'" Ethan quickly summarized. "You've got bows and arrows, crossbows, slingshots, and plain arm strength to work with, so I hope you're good with one of 'em."

"Uh... not really, actually. But to be clear: anything goes, right?"

"For the most part, yeah."

"... Tyson, you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I believe so, brother," he replied with a grin. "It will certainly make matters easier."

"... I don't wanna know," Ethan finally sighed after a few moments of looking between us. "Just get over to the west side of the Field of Mars when you're done, okay?"

"Sure thing," I acknowledged as I began working through some ideas. All those ground to a halt at the sight of the heavy-duty wagons used to carry equipment and ammunition, sparking an entirely different idea. "Say, could we get a wagon? We've got some weaponry that'll help out."

"Sure... by the way, it's gettin' dark, so make sure you bring some flashlights."

"Of course, Optio. Of course."

After a quick trip back to my footlocker, Tyson and I made our way to the Field of Mars with a fully loaded wagon in tow—eliciting gasps, murmurs, and uneasy looks. In their defense, we came back all kitted up: battle belts, plate carriers, helmets, NODs (even for Tyson, but I couldn't get a monocular so he just used one tube), a rifle, a machine gun, and two grenade launchers—not including the little surprise we had with us in the wagon.

"... what the hell?" Ethan muttered.

"Hey, you said anything goes!"

"I know it's called Deathball, but the point is to engage in ranged combat without killing each other."

"That's why we're packin' training rounds and less-lethal."

"Huh?"

"Simunition for the SAW, AR, and sidearms; chalk, flash, flares, and smoke for the M32s; and more chalk for our little friend in the wagon."

"... just don't get people killed, okay? Actually, Jackson, let me stay with you—"

"Wait, did you say Jackson?!" a man called in the crowd as he made his way through the sea of armor. But while his face was unrecognizable, to a degree, it was hard to forget the voice of the guy often called a "vampire" or the "Kool-Aid Man." It was none other than my old centurion, Dakota Sanders. Or should I say...

"Prefect Sanders? You know this man?" Ethan asked, standing at attention.

"Your gods-damned right I do! Percy, you son of a bitch!" he laughed as we shook hands. "Everyone thought you were dead!"

"Yeah, I get that a lot," I replied with a grin. "No Kool-Aid lips, I see."

"I've been cutting back for years. Gwendy's been helping me out on that one."

"Gwendy... Sumners? Centurion Shish-Kebab?"

"Technically Sanders now, but maybe leave out that latter bit."

"... is everyone getting hitched?"

"Uh... no?"

"Nevermind, but that's two marriages that showed up on my radar, plus an unmarried couple outta nowhere! So where's your better half?"

"She's doing her motivational speech thing," he chuckled before turning around. "Yo, Gwendy! C'mere!"

"What?!" the descendant of Ceres (if I remember correctly) shouted back.

"Seriously, c'mere!"

"Okay, okay! What's going on—wait, Tyson the cyclops? Why are you dressed up like a soldier?" she asked as she came to the front of the crowd.

"Percy's idea," my brother replied with a shrug.

"Wait... the new kid and temporary praetor? Jackson?!" she gasped when she saw me.

"Long time, Centurion Sumners... or is it Sanders now?" I replied, reaching out for a handshake but receiving a hug instead—looked like she was still physically affectionate, based on old memories.

"Good gods, welcome back! Where have you been?"

"Under the sea, at a desk, and in some sandboxes."

"I have no idea what that means, but I knew you weren't dead! C'mon, you show up outta nowhere and single-handedly turn the tide in your first wargame? Main character traits all the way!"

"Gwendy likes reading," Dakota elaborated. "Maybe a little too much... especially Peter Johnson and Soldiers of the Gods... some author named Dick Dior, I think."

"John Grisham's good too!"

"Yeah and all those romance novels to balance out the action and darkness."

"Sure, Kota, Sure."

"I hate to interrupt this inside joke of yours," I interrupted. "But what happens now?"

"Well, that's a question for Tribune Steele," Gwen answered, gesturing towards the young officer I saw earlier. "Each team's being led by a thin-striped tribune to give 'em more experience as commanders... should be fine, provided they don't screw it up. They got centurions and Kota for advice, but final decision-making rides on them—a rarity, believe it or not, considering that the thick-striped tribune is the only one with any sort of command."

"So they're basically butter bars... gotcha," I reasoned. "Well, what plan does Steele have?"

"It's pretty much just charge and let sub-commanders decide how individual units advance," Dakota replied with a shrug. "Not the best idea, to be honest. But you're here with modern weaponry... either you've been in the military or living in Texas for the past twenty years."

"The former, though I've been there."

"Ah... so you went into special forces or something?"

"Nope, not a Green Beret. Just a Navy diver with experience in a lot of pieces of equipment."

"Hey, we'll take what we can get. But you better inform Steele. Tribune!"

"What, what is it?" the young man from earlier asked, turning away from the conference he was having with the leadership.

"Since I'm rolling with your men, Tribune, I'd like to brief you on what Tyson and I are doing, so as to avoid any blue-on-blue. If you'd like, I can give some suggestions," I offered, with the crowd of clanking armor and chatter going silent.

"... I just realized, you're the one they call the Legend. The Percy Jackson, right?" he murmured, eyes going wide.

"Well, I didn't know I had earned the 'The' status, but I guess so."

"Well... okay, let's hear it."

"I was thinkin'... Tyson and I set up a firing position, sow a bit of chaos and disorient the enemy the best we can. Everyone else hide and stay down, whether it be on hills or in ditches, trenches, or tunnels. We draw 'em in, you ambush 'em and go to town while we provide fire support. Piece o' cake."

"That's not any standard plan we were taught."

"Gotta think outside the box."

"Tribune," Dakota stepped in. "It may not be the most... Roman strategy, so to speak, but what is there to lose? Especially for Cohort X, who has—for the past two years—lost every competition with Cohort VIII."

"Prefect Sanders is right!" a centurion—Tenth Cohort's commander, I guessed—declared. "We have to beat them, or they won't cease to rub it in our faces!"

I tried not to show my surprise at Dakota's persuasion. He was pulling at their egoes, their senses of pride, their fears of humiliation. One could call it a dirty trick, but it seemed more like a testament to him becoming a better orator—likely due to spending so much time with Gwen.

"Okay," Steele finally conceded, with the legionaries of Cohort X quickly quieting down. "We'll do it. What do you need?"

"Just a small security element. Our position can be assaulted, but never compromised," I replied.

"We'll handle that, Tribune," Dakota declared. "I'd advise you get the rest of the team into positions they can hide in. We just have to figure out a signal for the ambush."

"Perhaps I could use a whistle," Tyson suggested, pulling a simple safety whistle from his belt and turning towards me. "On three blasts, everyone emerges from their hiding places and attacks the enemy. Speed, surprise, and violence of action, right?"

"Spoken like a warfighter," I replied with a grin and slap on the back. "Whaddaya think, guys?"

"Simple... but effective," Gwen noted.

"Troops used it in World War I. Old tricks sometimes are the best tricks."

"Very well," Steele said with a nod. "Everyone relay the plan to your legionaries and get into position. The game starts at eight... may luck be on our side."

Tyson and I set ourselves up on a small hill—one of the few in the Field of Mars. Everything advancing would probably have a good view of us, but so would we of them. Plus, remember our little friend from earlier? If you hadn't caught on, our little friend was a machine gun that shot grenades instead of bullets: the MK19.

We set it up on its tripod and loaded a belt of chalk rounds—I didn't anticipate any fatalities, but they would definitely end up covered in orange dust. We also had the M32s, SAW, AR, and sidearms for anyone that got past the automatic grenade launcher. And yes, Tyson was able to figure out these weapons too, even assembling the MK19 himself. Seriously, if he didn't end up a blacksmith and general in Father's military, he could've done well in the military, law enforcement, or contracting.

"Psst! You good?" Dakota whispered behind us, having stationed himself and some other troops from his cohort around the hill in a few concentric rings to maximize security of the firing position.

"Yeah, ready to rumble..." I murmured as I checked my watch: 1957. "It might get loud, just lettin' you know. Watch the trenches and any tunnels."

"Don't worry, we've got this. You just do whatever it is you need to do with... that."

"Relax, Vampy. We'll be fine."

"... 'Vampy?'"

"Eh, I'll give you a better nickname."

"Please don't."

Moments later, there was a trumpet call: the signal for the battle to begin. Up above, I could see eagles, pegasi, and "alicorns" (I think), with the latter two having riders I assumed were medics. Even Festus—who to this day, I have no idea how Leo rebuilt within the freaking Argo II—was airborne, and I could just make out his master and master's girlfriend sitting on top, watching the whole spectacle from above.

Seriously, Zippo and RA-RA knocking boots? It seemed as likely as me and Artemis hooking up... at least, upon first glance. After a bit more thinking, I could see the logic behind it. Getting handcuffed together—even if it was a rage-mode Frank move—must've given them enough time to get everything negative out of their systems. And if they were stuck together, they (especially Leo) had to fill the silence somehow. And if you talk with someone long enough, you'll find that the two of you have a few things in common.

But I digress. Obviously, in accordance with the plan, nobody on Blue Team had their flashlights on yet. Tyson and I were similarly blind... had it not been for the PSQ-36s we had mounted on our helmets. With thermals enabled, it wasn't hard to see the small groups of legionaries approaching—who also seemed to be trying to use stealth.

Emphasis on "trying."

"I'll hit 'em with flares n' flashes, you send the chalk at 'em, okay?" I whispered as I shouldered my M32, with Tyson nodded from his position behind the MK19. It was a mostly full moon—or a waning gibbous, if I remembered elementary school correctly—so I flipped my NODs up and aimed the best I could in the moonlight. Given that switching weapons is faster than reloading, I kept the first M32 loaded with flares to light up the battlefield. While Tyson laid down fire, I'd launch the flashbangs from the second M32 to disorient the enemy. And if anyone got too close... we had plenty of simunition for them.

"Goin' left to right. Three, two, one, firing," I warned as I depressed the trigger. Six "thunks" later, a row of flares had been lit up around a hundred meters from our position, eliciting cries of shock and awe from Red Team's legionaries. "Execute!"

While I switched launchers, Tyson engaged the enemy with accurate, 3-round bursts of chalk rounds from the MK19. From behind me, I could just make out Dakota's scoffs—whether they were surprise or a lack of, I wasn't sure—as I raised the second M32 to fire. While the 40-mm flares weren't as good as something from a mortar in terms of illumination, there were still six of them lighting up the Field of Mars, making it just a bit easier to send flashbangs towards the enemy.

"Reloading, reloading!" Tyson warned as he expended the last of his rounds and grabbed another ammo box. Acknowledging his situation, I slung the launcher to my side, picked up my AR, and lowered my NODs with IR engaged. While there was some interference from the flares, it was still easy to pick up the legionaries running away from them.

"You can run, but you can't hide," I murmured as I activated the PEQ-15, lining it up right in front of a moving target and squeezing the trigger six times. He stopped, raising his hand and running back for Red Team's spawn point—just like the ones Tyson had engaged with the MK19. Four more tried flanking us on the right, but the IR laser and their lack of shields made it all too easy to take them down.

"Percy, we have them on their heels!" Tyson said as he continued to send grenades towards the enemy. However, no sooner did he say that, an arrow exploded a few yards from us. "Whoa!"

"Percy, they're getting wise to you!" Dakota called down the hill as he used his sling to launch a projectile towards the east. "You might wanna call in the assault now!"

"We need more of 'em on us!" I shouted back as I reloaded an M32 with flares. "Maintain the hardline!"

"Okay!"

"Sending flares, sending flares!" I wasn't quite as coordinated as the first time I lit up the field, but it was still enough to replace the flares that burned above earlier—though based on the screeches and squawks that followed, I almost accidentally hit some eagles. "Sorry," I murmured, though I wouldn't be surprised if one of them crapped on me in the following days.

Looking down the hill, I noticed legionaries running past us for the west end of the field, hands held high. Our security element was taking hits, and we were running out of time. But we had to keep Red Team's attention on us, or the ambush would have a greater chance of failing. As Dakota shouted another warning below, I reloaded both M32s with flashes and yelled at him to maintain the hardline, with a new plan in mind: if we couldn't keep their attention, at least we could knock them off-balance.

"Tyson! Get that whistle ready!" I ordered over the rapid "thunks" of the MK19. "When I tell you to, you call that assault in!"

"Okay, okay... ready, brother!" he replied as he pulled it from his belt, managing to continue firing with his right hand. Meanwhile, the flares were fizzling out above the battlefield—it was time for an assault.

"Okay... firing, firing, firing," I said to myself as I raised the first M32 and pointed it towards a group of legionaries that were making mad dashes for trenches. Firing as quickly and accurately as I could, I sent the forty mike-mike sailing towards the enemy, doing the same with the second M32 on a different set of targets. The bright flashes lit up the night while the bangs reverberated throughout the field, with shouts of shock and pain quickly joining the cacophony as legionaries ran around, disoriented. "Tyson, execute!"

Putting the whistle to his lips, Tyson let out three shrill blasts that made me incredibly thankful for my ComTacs. But for Red Team... it was their doom as a horde of legionaries emerged from shadows, trenches, and tunnels, bellowing war cries and sending projectiles towards the east—fireballs brought light to the dark sky along with flaming arrows.

I signaled for Tyson to cease fire with the MK19 and let the legionaries do the damage—but that didn't mean we had to stop delivering fire support. Moments later, each of us were launching the last of our flares from the M32s to give our guys an assist and further light up the night.

"Percy, it looks like Red Team has formed a hardline, about two hundred yards ahead!" Tyson said. Sure enough, I could just make out slingers and arbalists protected by a shield wall—the parmae were not as big and tough as the normal scuti (if I remembered the terminology correctly), but still a major problem for the guys trying to break through. Nodding, I loaded the last of the flashes in my M32. There was the risk that our guys would get hit, but even though this was a game, it was just like war: risky.

I fired a flashbang towards the enemy, with it exploding a few yards behind them. While it didn't quite disorient them, it did distract them enough that they let up their guard, opening a window that Blue Team legionaries exploited. Before I could think of sending a second flash, the enemy hardline had been broken and the chaos had only intensified. Instead, I focused on a few targets further away—Red Team legionaries rejoining the fight for their second, short-lived lives.

Two carefully launched flashes left, two right, and one up the middle later, the legionaries were either standing still or running about like headless chickens—perfect for the advancing friendlies. Not only were we winning, but I had more practice with the forty mike-mike in that moment than I'd had in the past four years.

Remember: officers are not damage-dealing entities, they're the guys directing the damage-dealing entities.

Of course, my officer responsibilities were nonexistent here, so I could do all the damage I pleased. I raised my AR and continued taking shots at moving targets. I wasn't sniper-qualified, but I could still hit the occasional moving target—or at least keep them from moving around too much.

"Percy!" Gwen shouted below me to my right, crossbow in hand. "How the heck are you doing that?!"

"Thank Tyson! He's been laying down some serious fire with the MK19!"

"I just got a report from a runner! Looks like Red Team is in full retreat!"

"Excellen—"

"DOWN!" Tyson bellowed as he grabbed my plate carrier and yanked me to the ground right as an arrow whizzed over my head. With his right hand, he drew his G17 and fired rapidly towards the direction the arrow came from, emptying the magazine.

"Holy—thanks, bro!" I coughed out, recovering from getting the wind knocked out of me. But before I could get up, Tyson had already gotten into a kneeling position with the SAW, firing 5-7 round bursts towards the enemy below. I could hear shouts from our guys and screams—confusion or fear, I didn't know—from what appeared to be our attackers. If I had to guess, they utilized one of the tunnels in the Field of Mars to slip by our security element. Before I could engage them, they were already on the run.

"Okay, okay, you can stop!" a shrill voice yelled, coming from one of the figures dashing towards the east with their hands held high. Tyson ceased fire, but remained vigilant, tracking them with his SAW's PEQ-15 as they scrambled away.

Seriously, Tyson would've made a remarkable operator in another life... or an infantryman, artilleryman, mortarman, sapper, EOD tech, etc. I had to wonder, though: would other cyclopes be similarly capable?

"Damn, brother!" I exclaimed. "Remind me to take you back to Dam Neck with me..."

"Say what, Percy?" he asked as he reloaded his SAW.

"Nevermind. Thanks for the save."

"That's what brothers do."

A new trumpet call blared, signaling the end of the game. Flashlights lit up the field as Blue Team erupted with cheers and Tyson and I exchanged a fist-bump. We began breaking down the MK19 and stowing it away, along with the rest of our gear. As we finished packing, a crowd gathered around the small hill, hooting and hollering like mad. It felt like we were celebrities as we made our way down, with the legionaries shouting our names, clapping us on the shoulders, backs, and helmets, and a few even hugged us.

"Are you sure you're not a commando?" Ethan shouted over the chaos as he shook my hand.

"Gettin' ideas from your boy, are you?" I laughed back, with the optio rolling his eyes before exchanging a handshake with Tyson.

"DUDE! You're crazy, you know that?!" Dakota yelled as we shared a bro-hug.

"I've heard, I've heard!"

"PARTY TIME! PARTY TIME!"

Stuck in the chaos of the crowd, we made our way towards the mess hall. Around us, I could see the legionaries from the other cohorts cheering us, while our foes from Red Team—covered in orange chalk, blue paint, dirt, and/or soot—watched on from the opposite end of the building. Food was brought out and drinks were poured, with everything from water to wine (Dakota seemed to be indulging in Kool-Aid, with Gwen seeming too excited to scold him).

It reminded me of one time when my platoon hung out with United States Marines: they worked hard, napped hard, and played hard.

"Mars almighty!" Frank exclaimed behind me as I removed my helmet and wiped the sweat from my brow. "That was no Roman strategy, nor a Greek one!"

"The sailor has some moves, my friend!" I shot back while taking off my safety glasses.

"Good grief! I'd hate to see you fight in real life!"

"Er... we did, remember? When we brought Rancor in?"

"... oh yeah."

"So this is how modern soldiers fight?" Hazel questioned.

"Eh... kind of," I replied with a shrug as I snagged a bottle of water and drank from it. "Usually, especially when American troops are on the ground, there are significantly more explosions. Hit the officer, doc, or K-9... the Geneva Conventions turn into the Geneva Suggestions."

"So... where American soldiers go, death and destruction follow?" Reyna confirmed.

"That's basically every military in existence, though."

"Good point. I did tell Annabeth that we'd raze Camp Half-Blood and salt the earth."

"One: what? And two: Percy, I have several questions," Leo declared as he tapped me on the shoulder.

"I have several answers," I replied as I took another sip of water.

"Was that a machine gun shooting grenades?!"

"Yep."

"Excellent! HEY, EVERYONE!" At his bellow, much of the crowd shut up and turned towards the young god. "I HAVE A PROCLAMATION TO MAKE!"

"WHY?!" someone shouted from the back.

"BECAUSE I'M A GOD AND IT'S IN MY JOB DESCRIPTION! IT'S VERY SIMPLE: PERCY JACKSON IS NO MORE! HE IS NOW... uh, Rey? What title would work for him?" Leo murmured, turning towards the ex-praetor.

"Evocatus, maybe. He kinda served, kinda got his missio, but ended up back here at our invitation," Reyna replied after a brief moment of thought.

"I was voluntold, not invited," I corrected, with the young goddess shooting me a smirk in reply—unfortunately, Leo seemed to have rubbed off on her.

"Thanks, hermosa!" Leo muttered before turning back towards the crowd. "Where was I... OH YEAH! BY MY DECREE—WHICH IS SUPPORTED BY BOTH CONSULS AND HAZEL—YOU SHALL NO LONGER ADDRESS PERCY JACKSON AS 'PERCY JACKSON!' HE IS NOW AN EVOCATUS... GIVE IT UP FOR EVOCATUS YEETUS DELETUS!"

The crowd erupted with cheers and laughter, with some even chanting the new name Leo had christened me with. Still, I smiled and waved before accepting the repair boy's bro-hug.

"I swear, I'll beat your ass," I murmured into his ear.

"You could try, Water Boy," he shot back with a mischievous grin. "Your weaponry won't save you."

"I don't need it. Worse comes to worst, I'll sic Tyson on you."

"YEETUS DELETUS! YEETUS DELETUS! YEETUS DELETUS!" Dakota loudly chanted, with even more of the crowd joining in as he pumped his right fist and just barely held onto his Kool-Aid with his left. Beside him, Gwen was cackling like Cruella de Vil as she shouted my new name alongside her husband.

"I hate you," I said, with Leo's smile only growing wider as he patted me on the shoulder.

"I know."

For those that haven't heard, the US Army has selected the XM5 and XM250 from the Next Generation Squad Weapons program to replace the M4 and M249, respectively (at least, for infantrymen, cavalry scouts, forward observers, combat medics, and combat engineers). Not only are there new weapons with new tech, there's a new caliber to come with them: 6.8x51 mm, apparently a compromise between 5.56x51 mm and 7.62x51 mm.

You've noticed the lack of 6.8 rounds despite the story being set in 2030. This is due to a theory I believe with my limited knowledge to be true: 5.56 (and probably the M4 and similar weapons systems) will remain in service for a little while longer. Moreover, .300 Blackout will be working alongside it, at least for SOF, due to it being more suppressible than 5.56 (albeit being more limited to CQB scenarios).

Now, given the fact that USMC and SOCOM haven't made any move towards the new weaponry, it's more than likely they won't show up in the story. Plus, there's a lot of gear I mention that would either be obsolete and barely in use eight years in the future... and while I'm no military expert, I'm even less of a firearms expert. Not only am I not good at predicting the future of firearms, I'm not terribly knowledgeable on the ones we have today. Seriously, I'm still not 100% sure what upper/lower receivers are. If someone could explain it to me Barney-style, I'd appreciate that.

But all that aside... once again, modern weaponry blows the ancient world out of the water and Tyson is awesome. I think I might've accidentally made him OP. Maybe cyclopes and Vulcan/Hephaestus kids would be best-suited for a real-world military (particularly combat arms), even more so than Mars/Ares and Minerva/Athena kids! Maybe I should have Tyson meet 1 Troop... it'd be funny for Snake to see he's no longer the biggest guy in the room, if nothing else.

As for Percy, he finally learns about Deathball due to him being voluntold into it. This is how you know if someone's a main character: if he or she is continually being voluntold into doing stuff. And Gwen and Dakota are back!

Thanks for reading and make sure to leave a comment. Next up... more Camp Jupiter shenanigans!

Until then,

- ADF-2