'Redirection'

20-Nov-2030, 2200U

LCDR Percy Jackson, US Navy, Son of Neptune

Legio XII Fulminata (TDY)

Oakland, California, USA

If I was being completely frank, this was the single greatest day so far. We were nearly halfway through the six weeks of instruction, and the legion had made a significant improvement. They were still a shit sandwich in many respects, but at least they weren't a soggy one.

Ruck marches? Not quite meeting the old standards, but better and with fewer injuries. Swims? We didn't have an army of Michaels Phelps (or would it be Michael Phelpses?), but nobody seemed to be drowning anymore. We'd completed most of the fortifications and other defensive measures around the camp, New Rome, and the valley as a whole, locking it down much, much better. As for combat? Well, they could definitely kick some ass now.

Good Lord, this is so satisfying to watch... I wonder if this is how Chiron feels when he turns a bunch of jackasses into warriors.

But the greatest improvement of all came from Probatio Joker, who underwent a near-complete 180 after his insubordination and punishment. He still mouthed off from time to time, mainly by cracking all sorts of jokes (especially innuendos, which he loved to spout off whenever females were present). For instance, during a lunch break, he (and a few other dumbass young bucks) did some stupid shit when they realized that there were females within visual range and earshot, and the instructors had left them temporarily unsupervised.

"What the hell are those imbeciles doing?" Kahale muttered as he glanced to his right, with me glancing left to see exactly what he was talking about. There on the Field of Mars, Cohorts III, IV, and V were resting and eating lunch after some training. A few younger legionaries appeared to be making fools out of themselves in front of the females in the legion's logistics detachment: namely with suggestive motions, whistles, and catcalls. And among them, of course, was none other than Probatio Joker.

The females—also known as "W.L.s" or woman legionaries—did an excellent job in ignoring them and maintaining their composure—as they should, considering those boys were still immature little fucks who were in their "all balls, no brains" stage. But I'll be honest, it was annoying me a bit: noise pollution was a bitch.

"Honestly, I'm surprised this is happening here of all places... y'know, southern California?" I replied in jest.

"You'd be surprised just how politically incorrect this legion is. Even though we're in SoCal... but then again, this is where degeneracy runs rampant," Kahale replied, exasperated. "Especially degeneracy of the sexual kind, which is ironically loved by all those diehard PC motherfuckers. Don't get me wrong, I hate being PC, but that shit is retarded: this is the 12th Legion Fulminata, not a fucking street corner... probably doesn't help that most of the females were consolidated into Tenth Cohort. Now they barely see 'em, so it's like a rare sight to them that just fires up their neurons and makes 'em think with their dicks instead of their heads."

"Don't tell me this shit didn't happen during coed cohorts."

"Actually, it did... plenty. It's just a little more obvious. The separation was definitely a good idea for combat effectiveness, but it doesn't help this crap... at least girls mature faster than we do and have learned to ignore the bullshit."

"Titties! Show me them titties! Come on, baby! I got fifteen denarii, just give me one ass cheek!" Joker shouted, sounding like a drunkard horndog at a strip club.

"Oh boy... we better go straighten them out," I said, trying not to laugh at just how stupid and desperate those catcalls sounded. Seriously, it's one thing to properly compliment a girl out of the blue (catcall with "good" ending) and it's another to pull this nonsense (catcall with "bad" ending).

"Yep, we should," Kahale sighed as he began lumbering towards the scene of the tomfoolery, me on his heels. And as we got closer, we could hear even more bullshit. Now, Kahale will deny it, but I swear I think he found it mildly funny.

"That is one liberated bitch," Jackass #2 remarked.

"I'm gonna hit that shit!" Joker exclaimed.

"You must be higher than a kite, that ain't nothing but a piece of nappy haired blonde biatch!" Jackass #3 said.

"He's right man. You ain't hittin' shit. W.L. like that? Nah, she be wearing Imperial Gold panties nailed on top of a barbed wire bush," added Jackass #2.

"Yeah, well, I'm gonna do some of that recon shit!" Joker declared, picking up his helmet. "I'm gonna make a path for all you motherfuckers."

"Shit, man, can you imagine the stank on that cunt?" Jackass #4 joked.

"That is exactly where I'm going! Yessir, I'm gonna go down on her like she got allll of the enemy's battle plans just buried right between her legs!" Joker said, proceeding to "go down" on his helmet and eliciting many laughs from his fellow dumbasses and the other males around him.

"You better dig deep. Oh, yeah, baby! Get in there, Joker, come on!" Jackass #5 laughed. "Give it a little tap! Pat it, pat it!"

Joker did so, with several of the jackasses falling over with laughter... all the while, the catcalled females looked more confused than offended.

"It's not that bad over here, don't kill yourself like that!" some random legionary eating lunch shouted as Joker put on his helmet and, like a very macho man (note my sarcasm), began walking over towards the females like... what was that cartoon guy called, Dr. Livesy?

"Shit, go get it, baby!" Jackass #2 urged. "Get some for old J.C.!"

"For Julius Caesar and the might of Rome, get some!" another random legionary shouted.

"Oh, shit. Heads up," Jackass #4 said, seeing that Kahale and I were approaching.

"Oh, shit, smash!" Jackass #3 muttered right as Kahale walked right into Joker's path, stopping the weirdo with a powerful palm-strike to the chest.

"Belay that, Probatio!" he barked, stunning Joker while making many others suppress their manly giggles. "You're squealing like a bunch of butt-fucked Vegas bitches! UNFUCK YOURSELVES... or we're gonna suffer the spectacle of a W.L. with a bunch of horny legionaries trailin' her stern! Get yourselves squared up, y'hear?!"

Prefect Kahale was none too pleased as he continued to tear into Joker and the other catcallers. But I had to say, the entire exchange was fucking hilarious... I couldn't figure out for the life of me why it sounded so familiar, though.

"Probatio... you're misappropriating your cranial protection device by attempting fornication with it! Jupiter's ballsack, do I have to tell you not to desecrate your gear with PERVERSIONS?! Kahale bellowed, before turning towards the rest of the jackasses. "WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOUR BRAIN CELLS?! FRONT LEANING REST POSITION, MOOOOOOVE!!"

But while Joker was still something of a grade-A idiot, he also learned to shut up and listen when the time was right. He was putting in a genuine effort now and, according to my Minions and even his peers, he was probably the best slackman in his cohort, and a damn good fighter. And hell, there were some other noteworthy rebels in the legion who were similarly improving.

"There's hope for this legion yet," I muttered to myself as I looked over the paperwork strewn across the table before me, grinning. We still had three weeks to go, and dare I say it, the skies were the limit. "God fucking dammit... and here I thought I'd hate teachi—"

"Evocatus, this is Tesserarius," the current chief watchman suddenly called over the radio. "Uh, sir, we've got a bit of an issue."

"Define issue," I replied with a yawn.

"Well, sir, they're friendlies, but... I don't know what they're doing here. They wanna talk to you."

"Who is it and where are they?"

"They're coming in via the dirt roads, and are staging in the open area of the valley east of New Rome. You better get over here, sir."

Cracking my neck and back, I grabbed my Noveske and stepped out of my room in the Principia, to see a confused-looking Kahale.

"I just came from the staging area. You mind telling me what's going on?" he asked.

"Dude, I don't fucking know. I just heard about it."

"This is your element."

"The fuck you mean it's my element, you giant pineapple?"

"Are you seriously comparing me to Manuel Noriega?"

"Nah, that guy was something of a prick. You're just... huge and Hawaiian."

"Great, that makes so much more sense."

"Blah blah blah, Mr. Camp Prefect."

Much walking later, we found even more confused legionaries and probationes, to include Joker and his fellow jackasses still digging and filling holes for no reason, when we came across the "friendlies" in the wide open space east of New Rome and Temple Hill... and I was beginning to see what Kahale was talking about.

"What the absolute hell?" I said, eyes widening as my brain malfunctioned at the sight before me: a massive horde of cyclopes, all wearing military gear that looked like a mix of all those uniforms that were used from the early 1980s to sometime before 2020... what were those called, again?

Let's see... there's the Chocolate Chips called "Desert Battle Dress Uniform" or something, there's the ones used by TU Bruiser in American Sniper—Desert Combat Uniforms, I think—oh, and how could I forget the Lord's flannel, the almighty Woodland Battle Dress Uniform?

Moreover, these cyclopes had a lot of vehicles that I'd seen utilized by the United States Army: Strykers, Humvees, those big trucks (5-tons, I think), those godawful APCs the Army guys seemed to despise (M113s, I think), some old MRAPs, and more... and some vehicles were even towing artillery, including what I was pretty sure was a 155-mm howitzer. And the cyclopes were bearing all sorts of older weapons systems: M16s, M60s, M249s, M9s, AT4s, SMAWs, and other older-looking shit I hadn't seen in a while. They even had night vision, with each having one of those monocular NODs, by the looks of it.

"I'm beginning to see why you think this is in my element," I said to Kahale, my eyes locked on the massive cyclops force before me. There had to be at least a battalion's worth here, and they were still coming into the staging area... but why?

"Prince Perseus?" a deep voice asked towards my left, with the owner being a shorter cyclops (six feet tall) decked out in DCUs and carrying an M60. Realizing it was, in fact, he gave me a small bow. "I am Cassius. It is truly an honor, sir."

"Uh, hi," I replied dumbly, giving a small bow back before reaching out and shaking his hand. "Uh, who the hell is in charge here?"

"You seek out the commander of One-Oh-One?"

"Uh... yeah."

"Please, let me take you to him."

Why is he being so cryptic and dramatic? That's the job of the Oracle of Delphi... or basically any of the Olympians.

But I followed Cassius anyway through the massive collection of manpower, horsepower, and firepower, lit up by lanterns and those big lights you see at construction sites. As I walked deeper and deeper towards the center of the smorgasbord of guns and gas-guzzlers, the cyclops troops saw me walking through, sending waves, polite greetings, formal bows, and informal salutes my way before they got back to work. The shortest of them were a little under six feet, while the tallest stood maybe at eight... it was deliberate, I supposed, if they wanted any chance of squeezing into these vehicles.

"Cassius... what the hell is this?"

"This is Task Force 101, sir! We just say One-Oh-One for simplicity's sake," he replied earnestly. "We're here to support Task Force Purple."

"What?"

"That is the general's designation of the forces of Camp Jupiter: TF Purple. The forces of Camp Half-Blood are TF Orange, the forces of Lord Neptune are TF Blue, Lord Pluto possesses TF Gold, TF Green are the creatures of nature underneath the Council of Cloven Elders, TF White refers to the forces directly underneath Lord Jupiter's control—including many of the gods themselves—and TF Silver are those Huntresses of Diana."

Color-coded task forces? Am I hallucinating? Has this all been a lucid dream, and I'm actually at JSOC HQ listening to a conference of some random officers and NCOs?

"Cassius... who is 'the general?'"

"Brother!" a deep voice boomed, with a 7-foot-tall figure lumbering towards me, his face filled with glee: none other than my not-so-little brother, Tyson, decked out in Gulf War desert cammies (DBDUs?). And of course, the big lovable lug picked me up in a backbreaking hug that thoroughly convinced me that I was not, in fact, dreaming. "It is wonderful to see you again, Percy!"

"Yeah, you too, big guy," I groaned out, unable to suppress a grin as I patted his uncovered head (his helmet was hanging from his chest rig). "Man, you know I love you, but can you please not break my spine?"

"Oh, apologies," he said, gently lowering me to the ground.

"Thanks... so you're the commander of TF 101?"

"Correct, brother: this is the one-hundred-and-first mission I have been the ground force commander of, but it is only the third mission I have partaken alongside the Torrent Troopers."

"The what?"

"Well, that's our nickname. Our official designation is Task Force Redeye, though we have nicknamed ourselves the 'Torrent Troopers.' After seeing the benefits of contemporary weaponry, I decided to stand up a unit which utilized the strategies, equipment, and TTPs of modern warfare. Of course, it isn't entirely modern, as most of the equipment we've managed to acquire is fairly old, but it'll do. We've already conducted an air assault and an amphibious assault on two separate targets, so now we are practicing our land warfare capabilities in the real world."

"Tyson... just how long have you been working on this?"

"Let's see... the last time we met was September 30th, so it would be from October 1st until now."

"That's... not even two months, bro."

"We learned fairly quickly, especially when it came to understanding the equipment... we found ourselves quite capable of building and fighting, in particular."

"So... instead of construction battalions, you guys are... cyclops battalions," I replied bluntly, the parallel between the cyclopes and the Navy Seabees finally clicking into place. "That makes so much fucking sense right now."

"Indeed, brother!"

"Ah, there you are, motherfucker!" a new voice called from behind Tyson: none other than my old friends Frank, Hazel, Leo, and Reyna... and with them were none other than Annabeth, Jason, Piper and—to my absolute surprise—Nico fucking di Angelo, the owner of said voice. And even stranger, all were geared up in gunfighter kit... even the latter four, who didn't know jack about the fireteam concept we tested.

"Hey man... we've let them in about the fireteam," Frank began, gesturing towards Annabeth, Jason, Piper, and Nico. "We got them some gear and Mr. Kyung and Ms. Nai gave them a crash course over the past week. So... yeah. Also, we have a major problem, hence why the Torrent Troopers are here."

"I must apologize, brother: many of the brigade combat team's assets are understrength. Our headquarters and headquarters company, our cavalry squadron, our field artillery battalion, our brigade engineering battalion, and our brigade support battalion are all understrength according to official United States Army doctrine," Tyson said. "Our only full strength unit is the infantry battalion, but we only have one of those instead of the necessary three... I don't have enough men yet."

"So everything's understrength," I summarized before shrugging. "Reality is often disappointing."

"You're gods-damn right, Percy Jackson," a new voice declared to my right: none other than a very grumpy-looking Grover, geared up for war.

"Grover?" I asked, looking at my former best friend in shock. "I... what are you doing here?"

"Unfortunately, Tyson and Annabeth are incredibly persuasive... as such, I've taken part in this 'TF 101,' as Tyson calls it," he grumbled. "I have some more nature spirits with me. A few are towards the back with some Camp Half Blood people, and more are on the way."

"Whoa... and here I thought you hated my guts, brother-man."

"Fucking hell, Percy. You disappeared for twenty gods-damned years without a trace."

"I said I was sorry, didn't I?"

"Yes, but you still get on my nerves... however, Tyson and Annabeth are right: you, along with the 12th Legion, will need our help."

"Just like old times, then?" I asked hopefully, outstretching my hand. He looked at it for a moment before rolling his eyes and shaking it.

"Just like old times, Perce."

"Fan-fucking-tastic. So... what did you mean when you said CHB was here too?"

"First of all," Annabeth began, stepping forward and punching me in the arm. "That's for keeping us in the dark."

"Chrissake, Wiseass, calm your tits."

"Second of all, Tyson's first stop was getting personnel from CHB. Of the 90 year-rounders—along with miscellaneous camp alumni living in New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, and Rhode Island—he assembled a 50-man group of fighters and folded them into One-Oh-One. Later, he called me and convinced me to get Grover and the nature spirits involved."

"We've got a smorgasbord of guys: Ares, Hermes, Hecate, Hephaestus, even Demeter Cabin... plus anyone who was an adult and willing to fight," Jason added. "Oh, and Chris and Clarisse are back from their honeymoon, so they're here too. Plus—"

"WHAT UP, CUPCAKES?!" a very familiar voice bellowed, coming around the corner of a Stryker to stand beside Grover: none other than that Coach Gleeson Hedge himself. But while Grover had gear from Ancient Greece, Hedge looked like one of those Rangers straight out of Black Hawk Down: DCUs, chest rig, load-bearing vest, and helmet with goggles. About the only difference was the addition of NODs, a sidearm on his belt, and what looked like an M1014 slung over his shoulder... oh, and the lack of any boots over his hooves. "Thought I heard your voice out here, Jackson."

"Coach... you look ready for war," I remarked with a grin, reaching out and shaking his hand. "You've got a dramatic entrance too?"

"Hey, Big Three boy, you don't own the dramatic entrance, okay? It ain't your damn copyright."

"I mean, if we go by Reyna's theory—" Leo began, making his girlfriend roll her eyes.

"Not my theory, Valdez."

"—that we live in a freaking fanfiction, it's probably our dumbass author at it again trying and failing to create a comedic effect."

"You sure? This seems pretty comedic," Jason remarked, gesturing towards our conversation. "All of this... bullshit."

"Speaking of bullshit... Coach, aren't you supposed to be too old for this shit? You were too old when you chaperoned us, now plus twenty years, you gotta be at least 200 old by now!" I exclaimed.

"Shut your mouth, sailor boy! I've still got a fight in me, and I need to make someone pay for what they did to my son," Hedge replied firmly.

"Uh... I think we already avenged your son months ago. Y'know, Operation Azrael?"

"It's all connected somehow! I know it is!"

"Whatever the case, another set of boots and guns will always be useful," Tyson prudently noted.

"Okay, we've deviated enough. Would someone mind telling me what the fu—"

But I couldn't complete my question due to a bright flash of light temporarily blinding me. When my vision returned, a few familiar figures stood before me: Mercury, Apollo, Vulcan, Trivia, and Minerva—and no, I technically haven't met her in person, but if Annabeth's descriptions were true, she was more batshit insane than her Greek counterpart. And if this night hadn't gotten ridiculous enough, Olympus's biggest source of family drama had also joined the party.

"Holy shit... Lords Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto," Reyna exclaimed, metamorphosing into her diplomatic state as she bowed. "We are honored with your presence."

"You may cease the proprietary, Consul," Pluto grumbled, looking bored as hell. "Because quite frankly, I don't know what I'm doing here... or any of us, for that matter. Why in Tartarus are we interfering in what is a clearly mortal matter, brother?"

"It has been decreed that we join," Jupiter replied sternly. "The Oracle of Delphi said it."

"Brother, that is preposterous. Nephew!"

"Yes?" Apollo asked, looking up from whatever Mercury was showing him on his magic phone.

"Do repeat the prophecy again."

"Right, well..."

In thirsty land, the battle will be,

Nature and half-men united by sea.

Elder Gods' blessings will be there,

Or failure from foes loaded for bear.

Prophet, Messenger, Blacksmith, Witch

They too shall help with the eldritch.

The Strategist, both Roman and Greek,

She must be clear or prove to be weak.

"And well, here's the story so far," Apollo added upon completing the prophecy's recitation. "General Tyson was assembling his task force before the Oracle of Delphi put this out there, since he learned about the impending enemy first."

"Damn, you guys got your own intel assets?" I exclaimed, looking over at a grinning Tyson. "Bro... I'm so proud of you right now."

"Moreover—"

"Perhaps we should discuss this elsewhere, Apollo," Vulcan suggested, gesturing towards the buildup of 12th Legion personnel just outside TF 101's staging area. And of course, they were weirded out by the whole shebang.

"Oh boy, one sec," I mumbled, jogging out to find Kahale in conversation with Legate Reed and the tribunes, while more and more personnel gathered west of the staging area, conversing amongst themselves as they saw the understrength Stryker brigade combat team before them.

"Jackson, what the fuck?" Reed exclaimed as soon as he saw me.

"I'll explain it inside. In the meantime, you gotta get these people outta here," I replied quickly, pointing towards the crowd.

"Right, right..." he muttered, turning around. "Attention, everyone! Back to whatever you were doing?"

But nobody heard him, with all the muttering only intensifying.

"I said, all of you are dismissed! Get out of here!"

But all the chattering didn't stop: people were too confused to obey their commanding officer. And when I glanced over at Kahale, he looked nothing short of pissed off: not only had a fucking brigade combat team rolled into his camp out of nowhere, but now his troops were not following their mandates from their CO. The disrespect was so great and the behavior so incomprehensible, a correction needed to be issued.

In other words, discipline was the only course of action. As if in slow-motion, Kahale inhaled deeply as he put a foot forward and raised his right arm, his finger joining together and straightening out to form the weapon of mass instruction: the almighty knife-hand.

"THAT'S ENOOOOOUGH!!" he roared, sounding more like a bear than a human as he knife-handed the entire legion. His bellow was so loud and fierce, it became so silent that you could hear a pin drop on the fucking grass. Everything in the valley had stopped: the legionaries, the Torrent Troopers, the arguing gods... everything. Nobody dared to speak. The praefectus castrorum owned the valley at that moment, his roar and knife-hand so unbelievably powerful, I'll bet every DI and command E-9 in the United States Armed Forces just shed a tear.

"THESE ARE OUR ALLIES, LADIES. THEY ARE HERE TO FULFILL A MISSION: A MISSION THAT WE TOO WILL PARTAKE IN. BUT FOR NOW, GET YOUR PANSY ASSES THE FUCK OUT OF MY SIGHT, OR I WILL P.T. YOU INTO YOUR FUCKING GRAVES!! AM I UNDERSTOOD?!"

"SIR, YES SIR!" the assembled legionaries shouted back.

"BULLSHIT, I CAN'T HEAR YOU!! SOUND OFF LIKE YOU'VE GOT A PAIR!!"

"SIR, YES SIR!!"

"DIS-FUCKING-MISSED!!"

And with that, the conglomeration scattered and Kahale took a deep breath and turned back towards the rest of us, who looked at him in awe. He reminded me of this master chief I had once, back at SEAL Team 2: very good, very competent man, but HOLY SHIT when he dropped the hammer, he dropped the fucking hammer. He could dish out discipline like it was nobody's business. But like that master chief, Kahale could still calm down very quickly, turn to the rest of the group, and it was back to business as usual.

"Alright... what else?"

AND THE PLOT FUCKING THICKENS, BOYS AND GIRLS!!

I wonder just how politically incorrect I can get before I get canceled... well, it's not like we're in the UK, so I think I can push the envelope a bit more. Of course, I also lack the requisite "pass" for certain words, so that would probably get me flamed by the Internet overlords (THE LIZARD PEOPLE PUTTING CHEMICALS IN THE WATER).

Speaking of political correctness, let's talk about Portland for a second: what the hell is going on over there, Portlanders? At this point, I only know you for the weirdest reasons: riots, political correctness, fedbois in minivans, degenerate weirdos, juggernaut riot cops, druggies, poop, protestors nearly indirectly killing a mentally ill man, microbreweries, dumbass elected officials, and the fact that your law enforcement agency is the Portland Police Bureau.

Not a department, but a bureau. Why the hell is it called a fucking BUREAU?! WHY?! I LITERALLY CAN'T FIND ANY INFORMATION TELLING ME WHY IT'S CALLED A FUCKING BUREAU!! ARE THERE ANY PORTLANDERS OUT THERE WHO CAN TELL ME?!

And the protesters nearly indirectly killing a mentally ill man? Yeah, that shit happened (I wish I was making it up):

https://youtu.be/qiZi-BpzFuc

Anyways, that is all I have for you lovely people today. Comment what you loved, what you hated, what you ate for breakfast this morning, and what your favorite SWAT team is (to hell with it, throw in some non-American units if you'd like). Don't forget to change your socks, drink water, and touch grass.

Until next time,

- ADF-2