Chapter 1: I Start Thinking Like a Conspiracy Theorist and Then Jubilee Blows It All Up
You'd think after fighting giants, sailing across the Atlantic in a flying warship, and watching my girlfriend almost turn a giant to stone with her glare alone, I'd have earned a break.
Apparently not.
Because here I was, in a New York apartment the size of a cyclops's closet, sipping lukewarm coffee from a chipped mug that said "Camp Half-Blood Alumni," and watching a very large, very angry, very hairy man lift a police car on live TV.
"This just in," said the reporter, who sounded way too calm for someone standing five feet away from a guy who could play catch with a Toyota, "another mutant-related incident downtown. Authorities believe it was started by a single attacker."
The guy roared and tossed the car like it was a soda can. A fire hydrant sprayed water everywhere. I winced. Not because of the water—that was kind of my thing—but because I could already feel the city's mood shifting, like a storm cloud gathering over everyone's heads.
"Not the best example of mutantkind," the reporter muttered as another cop car skidded to a stop.
No kidding.
Mutants. That was the new word on the street. The nice way to say "people born with powers that totally freak everyone out." Some could fly, or heal, or control metal or fire. One girl I met at college could literally talk to plants. I swear her cactus gave me the stink eye once.
And here's the kicker: this wasn't just happening because evolution felt like mixing things up. Nah. This had immortals written all over it.
Somehow, divine meddling had scrambled a few human DNA chains over the centuries. Not enough to make everyone a demiimmortal like me, but just enough to give people… extras. Like laser eyes. Or claws.
Naturally, humans did what they do best: panic.
And here I was, a guy who used to think "normal" was slaying monsters on Tuesdays, trying to get through college without having to summon a hurricane in the middle of algebra class.
Did I mention it was only Monday?
--------------
If someone had told twelve-year-old me that I'd be finishing high school at a place that accepted literal ex-cons, magical burnouts, and kids who couldn't pass algebra with a calculator and divine intervention… I probably would've said: "Cool. Do they have a pool?"
Turns out, they do.
Alternative High School—AHS for short (not to be confused with that creepy TV show)—was like Hogwarts if the Sorting Hat gave up and threw everyone into the same house. Juvie kids, kids who'd been expelled so many times they might as well have had loyalty cards, and kids like me: demiimmortals with attendance records that could double as a war diary.
Apparently "missing half the school year due to fighting Gaea and her sons, the Giants" didn't qualify as an excused absence. My last principal practically yeeted me out of the school like a harpy with a grudge.
Paul Blofis, my stepdad and certified Good Human™, pulled every string he could to get me into AHS. "They've got a pool," he said. "An Olympic-sized one."
Sold.
He didn't tell me the principal was a Nereid named Eudora who only hired teachers who weren't easily spooked by fireballs or disappearing students. It explained the pool, though. Eudora said it was "therapeutic," which I think was adult-speak for "I miss the ocean and the East River smells like demiimmortal sweat and bad decisions."
Flashback: My First Day at AHS
I walked in expecting weird. What I didn't expect was a literal raccoon wearing a hoodie riding a stolen skateboard through the hallway.
"Don't ask," a girl muttered as she passed me.
Her name was Jubilee. Real name? Julia, I think. She had this chaotic energy that made me feel like we were either about to be arrested together or become best friends. Maybe both.
She taught me how to break into a locked vending machine with a ruler and a firm smack. For legal reasons, I didn't actually do it. I just watched. With intense curiosity. For academic purposes.
She doesn't know I'm a demiimmortal. I don't know why I haven't told her. Maybe because she still thinks skipping class is a big deal. Try skipping into the Underworld.
Then there's Evan Daniels. Chill guy. Big into music, always wears headphones like they're surgically attached. When I asked what he listens to, he just said, "Anything that drowns out the noise."
Mood.
And finally, Katherine Pryde. Super smart, super focused, always fiddling with a Rubik's Cube she never solves. I once saw her chuck it at a guy who made fun of her boots. Respect.
None of them are demiimmortals, far as I can tell. No celestial bronze scars, no spontaneous Greek, no suspicious disappearing monsters in their history. But something about them feels… different. Not dangerous. Just on the edge of something.
Now: A Month In
It's been four weeks of group projects, cafeteria food that might actually be alive, and weirdly aggressive ping-pong tournaments. I'm still not sure what I'm doing here.
I mean… why am I learning quadratic equations when I've already mastered how to drop-kick a telekinetic giant into a pit of Tartarus?
Couldn't I just open a dojo for newbie demiimmortals? Or teach monster-survival classes? Or—immortals forbid—keep writing those books everyone thinks are fantasy fiction? Turns out I've got a weird talent for storytelling, and the royalties are nothing to sneeze at. Thanks to that, my rent's covered, and Annabeth hasn't had to pay for Wi-Fi in two months.
(Yes, Annabeth lives with me. Yes, it's as amazing and terrifying as it sounds. She leaves notes on my coffee like "Don't forget your math homework" and "Poseidon help you if you forget to do the dishes again.")
Still, something's been bothering me. That feeling. The one you get right before something big happens. Like the sea pulling back before a tsunami.
And this morning, when I turned on the news and saw a giant hairy man throwing cop cars like frisbees in downtown Manhattan, I felt it in my gut.
Change was coming.
-----------------
There's a special kind of peace that only demiimmortals know.
The kind where nothing is trying to kill you for longer than a week.
That's where I was. Or at least, that's what I thought.
I had my coffee, my weirdo school, and a girlfriend who hadn't threatened to stab me for not doing the laundry. Life was… suspiciously normal.
Which meant, obviously, something was about to go horribly wrong.
I'd started to notice weird things lately. Not monster-weird, but human-weird. Mutant-weird.
Mutants had apparently been around for centuries. But people used to call them "myths," "miracles," or "freak accidents." You'd hear about a guy lifting a car to save a kid or someone who could see in the dark better than a cat. Rumors. Urban legends. Internet hoaxes.
But in the last ten years, it had all come out of the shadows.
People throwing fire from their hands. Others walking through walls. One guy in L.A. turned into living magma during a dental appointment.
And yeah, while I'd been busy fighting Gaea, giants, Titans, and occasionally bad cafeteria fish, the world had quietly gone full superhero mode.
At first, I thought it was kind of awesome.
Like, finally, humans were catching up to us demiimmortals. I even thought maybe it was a fluke—some Poseidon-charged underwater volcano must've gone off and scrambled the DNA of some unlucky babies.
Then I started noticing something else:
Some of these mutants were strong.
Really strong.
Like, "punch-a-tank-into-orbit" strong.
Like, "I'm sorry, but is that guy faster than Jason Grace?" strong.
And that was when a thought snuck in.
"Is my dad… holding me back?"
I know, sounds paranoid. But come on, wouldn't be the first time the immortals decided to put limits on their children "for their own good." And it's not like Poseidon gave me a user manual. Maybe I was running on half power and didn't even know it.
Still, the world was changing, and I was starting to wonder if we—the demiimmortals—were still at the top of the food chain.
In the news, mutant crime was rising. There were more stories of mutants robbing banks, attacking people, or just freaking out in public. Some were scared kids. Others were power-tripping jerks.
The government's answer?
Big shiny robots called Sentinels.
The Mutant Control Agency had teamed up with some creepy federal guy named Henry Peter Gyrich, who looked like he smelled of old leather and disappointment. He was always on TV talking about "public safety" and "containment protocols." Basically, the guy was trying to make being born different illegal.
They said Sentinels were for protection.
But I've seen enough immortals in bad suits to know:
Those things weren't built to help. They were built to hunt.
And yet… I didn't think it had anything to do with me. I'm a demiimmortal, not a mutant. I've got my own set of monster-related problems. This wasn't my war.
That was the plan, anyway.
Until Jubilee decided to go full dramatic confession mode.
It was a Thursday. We were sitting on the cracked bleachers outside AHS. She had a Red Vine in her mouth and a scuffed lockpick set in her lap. The sun was going down. It was all very "Teen Drama Reveal Hour."
She wasn't making eye contact.
That was my first clue.
"Hey," she said finally. "You ever wonder if… maybe we don't choose our lives?"
I blinked. "Okay. That's… random."
She bit the Red Vine like it was a cigar. "What if the powers, the weirdness—it's not just random mutation or magic? What if it's something else? Like… connected?"
"…Connected to what?"
"To people like you." She looked up. "Percy, I know you're not normal."
Oh no.
"Whaaat?" I said, pulling my best innocent smile. "That's slander. I'm very average. Love long walks on the beach, fear spiders, totally normal."
"You glow blue when you're angry near water, and I'm not colorblind."
"…That could be a trick of the light."
"Uh-huh." She narrowed her eyes. "So. Here's the thing. I think I'm changing."
My stomach dropped. "Changing how?"
She pulled back her sleeve. Tiny sparks—like fireworks—flickered at her fingertips.
Not magic.
Not divine.
But something powerful.
"You know anything about… mutants?"
I stared at her fingers. At the sparks.
At the future unrolling in front of me like a red carpet made of headaches and explosions.
"Jubilee," I said slowly, "what exactly are you trying to tell me?"
She looked up at me with scared eyes and a small grin.
"I think I'm about to get very unpopular with the government."