The Demi-Dozen

July 17th 2015

Warnings: Descriptive Combat Scenes, Heavy Violence, and Swearing.

Percy will only be referred to as Jackson.

July 17th, 2015

Registan Desert, Afghanistan

Marine Convoy

In the middle of the Registan Desert, the hum of a half dozen Humvees and three APCS could be heard loud and clear.

The convoy consisted of about ninety battle-hardened Marines.

Ninety Marines who didn't legally exist.

The tinkering of spent rounds rolling around on the vehicle's floor was barely audible for the six heavily-armed men aboard the lead Humvee. These soldiers were the best of the best. Their skills surpassing their squad mates to an almost inhuman level.

These men were known by many names and titles, unofficially of course, depending on who was speaking of them.

To their enemies they were known as The Devil's Sixes. They were rumored to be evil beings who cut down followers of any Non-Satanic religion. This was mainly bogus propaganda that many ignored.

To their allies, they were called Heaven's ArchAngels. They were "six angels in disguise". They slaughtered enemy forces, saved their fellow combatants, and protected the innocent.

Only the dead knew the truth about the true identity of the six men.

They were the Demi-Dozen. A half dozen retired demigods armed with M4A1s and Colt 1911s.

Demigods that had fought in both the Second Titan War and the Second Giant War. Those who had saved the world twice and lived to tell the tale.

When the time for peace had returned, the hardened half-bloods knew immediately they couldn't live peacefully like everyone else could. These men were born to fight. They were born to serve and protect, whether it be mortals or their fellow demigods.

They were soldiers, and damn good ones.

"Hey Sarge!" A six foot one African American Son of Ares called out from the driver's seat. The sergeant looked to his lieutenant with a questioning gaze. The devilish smirk on his face told him he would probably regret listening.

"You know, everyone here knows about each other's, albeit currently nonexistent, sex life. Who's your old lady?"

Before he could speak, most likely to tell his friend to piss off, the five foot ten Hispanic Son of Hephaestus manning the Humvee's turret called over his shoulder, not tearing his vision off of the surrounding dunes.

"Speak for yourself Mitch, you know I'm fucking a different senora every other night! Chicks can't resist the Hispanic charm amigos."

"We all know that's bullshit Cortez. You have a better chance of getting citizenship then getting laid." The five foot eight Son of Pluto in the passenger's seat quipped.

"Ah fuck you Doom and Gloom." Was the only remark Cortez gave back. All was silent for a few seconds.

"Hey esse, I bet Caldwell will fuck you for a chocolate bar. Ain't that right C?" Cortez yells to the Son of Pluto.

Caldwell was a five foot seven twenty year old Son of Apollo. While younger than the others, his aim with a marksman rifle was unrivaled. His skills with weapons definitely made up for his small stature.

"Don't bring his dad into this Cortez, remember last time?" The sergeant remarked, smirking slightly at his squadmates banter. His smirk widened when he heard Cortez groan.