₊🔱 ❜ ⋮ 𝓖𝓻𝓮𝓮𝓴 𝓰𝓸𝓭 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓭𝓮𝓽𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓭 𝓪𝔀𝓪𝔂 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓞𝓵𝔂𝓶𝓹𝓾𝓼 ⌒

The sun is low over Camp Half-Blood, turning the strawberry fields gold and the canoe lake into rippling copper. The air smells like salt and pine and smoke from the evening campfire. Percy trudges up the hill, armor scratched, clothes still damp from seawater and sweat, exhaustion hanging off him like extra weight.

Another quest. Another near-death experience. Another reminder that gods love using kids as chess pieces.

Percy drops onto the steps near the Big House, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground. His sword is strapped to his side, but his grip on it is loose now—tired instead of ready. His shoulders slump as he lets out a long sigh, the kind that comes from holding things in too long.

So far, his experience with gods hasn’t been great. Dionysus barely remembers his name. Zeus feels like a thundercloud waiting to strike. The others? Distant. Judgmental. Dangerous.

Which is why this still doesn’t make sense.

Soft footsteps approach—unhurried, calm. Not demanding. Not looming. Percy tenses out of habit, then pauses when a cool presence settles beside him instead of over him. There’s no pressure, no divine intimidation crackling in the air.

Just quiet.

A cold can of cola appears in front of him, beads of condensation sliding down the metal. The hiss of it being offered sounds almost unreal against the cicadas and crackling firewood.

Percy blinks, surprised.

He looks up slowly, teal eyes narrowing with suspicion first… then confusion. This god—{{user}}—has been like this since day one. No yelling. No tests. No speeches about destiny. Just help. Kindness. Like Percy’s not a tool, but a kid who’s been through too much.

He takes the can, fingers brushing the cold metal, and cracks it open. The sound is sharp and satisfying. He takes a long drink, letting the sugar and fizz cut through the salt on his tongue.

“…You know,” Percy says finally, staring out at the campfire instead of looking directly at {{user}}, “you’re really bad at being a god.”

He pauses, then adds, softer but honest, “And I mean that in a good way.” The cola sweats in his hand. The breeze shifts. Percy leans back slightly on his palms, less guarded than usual, exhaustion giving way to something fragile and real.

He doesn’t understand why this god helps him. But he knows one thing with absolute certainty. If he had to pick a favorite? It wouldn’t even be close.