Disclaimer: The world of Percy Jackson, its characters and settings are the copyrighted works of Rick Riordan and his publishing companies and affiliates. No profit was made from the writing of this story nor was any malice intended in any way, shape or form to the author or the actors/actresses who so brilliantly have brought them to life.This author is not responsible for underage readers. Please observe the ratings, warnings, and age of legal consent for your country.
Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood.
Well, I did, but that was a long time ago. A long time ago, in a different life, under a different name, with a different face. Now? Now I wish I hadn't read so many gods-damned Mary Sue 'Percy's twin sister' fanfics when I was eleven. Hindsight's a raging bitch, but she's not as big of a bitch as the Fates. Now that I think about it, I can actually punch the Fates in this lifetime... Wait, no, I'm not an idiot. Anyways.
I really didn't want to be a half-blood. When I imagined seeing the Rick Riordan Universe I imagined being in it at a safe distance, like as an oracle or participating in a brief, childless, godly fling; not running from monsters because they want to eat my sweet, sweet demigod body. What was it that the musical said? "So if you think you are a half-blood, better get headed to the exits now, 'cause folks will think you're lying, better run and don't start crying, 'cause you're monster chow." What a fun rhyme to capture my current existence.
My name is Persephone "Percy" Ophelia Jackson. My name should have been Perseus "Percy" Achilles Jackson, but I guess I messed that up. I messed a lot of things up, actually, since they were different from what I remember. Kinda. Things were different even before I got here. Such as being Latina; Percy was described as being tan but never actually of color, and the fact that Smelly Gabe was physically abusive? Heavily implied but not fun to find out as the truth.
Turns out no matter what universe I'm in I'll still be an immigrant. Second-gen, this time, and both times I went from Brazil to America. My new mother's name is Sabelle "Sally" Rosa Marie Silvia-Jackson, but she dropped Silvia from my name to help me pass as white. The fact that she felt the need to do this didn't even draw a blink from me. What can I say? I had lived during one Donald Trump's presidency, so I know how bad racism can be against Latino immigrants. She's just trying to protect me as a mother, and was willing to erase my identity to do so. I can't fault her for that. Not after my death.
Oh, it wasn't due to racism, although I'm certain that it had a hand in it. There was a mass shooting at my (mostly african-american) university. There I was, a free 20 year-old that was living by myself and beholden to nothing except my student loans, ready to fight God, until I walked into the wrong class and found myself unwilling to fight my anxiety to leave and go to the class that I was supposed to be at. The shooter came in, guns blazing. Ophelia Marie Eduarda de Lopez died from blood loss, a bullet in her chest, alone and scared inside the only classroom the shooter managed to get to.
It sucked. 0/100, wouldn't recommend.
And then I woke up, 28 years before in 1992, in my new teenage mother's arms.
Fuck.
I'm not exactly proud to say my first reaction was denial. It was hard to tell that I had been reborn into my favourite fictional world anyway since I couldn't exactly gather information as an infant. The first few months were hell on earth; I was weak. I was helpless. I couldn't do anything, much less run away. After that shooting? Not being able to run away became the subject of my nightmares for a good long while.
If I wasn't trying to stay awake, I was rationalizing. Everyone's names were a coincidence, the missing father was a coincidence, the house address was a coincidence, nothing wasn't a coincidence. Even when my mother kept whispering promises to protect me from the monsters after another night of crying, I still thought it was my stupid ADHD autistic brain making connections. That is, until my first birthday.
My first birthday started normally. Mãe went to work and left me with the elderly neighbour who babysat me. She invited some old friends and neighbours over in the afternoon and I had my first taste of sweets from a Cinderella-shaped carrot cake; I kept smiling after that. Then night came, and it was off to bed for tired one-year-old me.
It was just after midnight when I woke up. The moon was quite high in the sky from what I could see from my window, and there was a stranger inside my room. The man that I was convinced was about to kill or kidnap me was tall, about 6'2", with messy black hair, green eyes, and he was wearing... a hawaiian shirt? He was half-hidden in the shadows and was staring at me with an intensity that felt like he was looking straight into my soul. For some reason, I couldn't bring myself to scream and warn my mother of an intruder.
I was paralyzed. Helpless. Alone.
The man walked up to me so he was peering down into my crib. There was a tender softness in his eyes so strongly present that it startled me; no stranger should be looking at me that way. He spoke softly, "Hello, little one. I am your father."
My father? The man who had been absent my whole relatively short new life? Impossible. This delusional weirdo who climbed in the window is going to have to take his Darth Vader impression somewhere else, thank you very much.
Then, he picked me up. There are no words to describe how that felt. He was warm, safe, and strong. I knew that he would do his best to protect me. He smelt like the ocean breeze and felt like love.
He smiled sadly down at me. "Your life will be hard my son. Be strong like the tide and you may survive this yet."
Hold up, 'son'? It's one thing to climb in through my window and claim to be my father, but to misgender me? Hell no.
I wail, loud as I can, and as a very quiet baby I know that Mãe will come running. My 'father' doesn't panic or try to quickly jump out of the window with me. He simply stands there, bouncing me, trying to soothe me.
Mãe soon appears in the doorway, eyes wild and a knife in hand. "Ophelia! Put my daughter down you-!" She cuts herself off when she gets a good look at the man holding me. "Poseidon?"
Oh. Oh fuck. Oh shit fuckery!
"It's nice to see you too, Sally," Poseidon says wryly, a spark of humor in his eye.
Cue my slight meltdown as I finally put all the clues together like the idiot I am.
"A daughter? Impossible, I've never had a demi-god daughter before" My godly father turns back to me, adoration on his face despite the words.
Never had a demi-god daughter? My mind, desperate for something to latch onto, went into overdrive. How has he never had a daughter before? He's five thousand years old! In fact, this tidbit sounds an awful lot like those badly written fanfictions I've known, the ones where they add this fact to make their Mary Sue more 'unique' and more of Poseidon's little princess. Nope, no way was I gonna let my life get turned into a twelve year-old's first fanfic. I swear for God's sake! Or is it 'gods' now?
"Papa!" I squeal. Ah-ha! Emotional manipulation, take that!
My mother gasps and takes me from his arms, "Who's my clever girl?" She peppers me with kisses. "Bet you were just waiting for your Pai for you to say that, weren't you?"
Fuck. Not my desired outcome.
"Was that her first word?" My father was beaming, quite literally glowing with pride and joy. "That's my princess!"
Double fuck. Why me?
My parents spend most of the night talking, mostly about me, speaking with soft tones. I drift in and out from sleep in my father's arms. I felt safe. This was all bullshit, but I felt safe. I had a mother who loved me, and a godly father who cared enough to visit. That's better than a lot of other scenarios, especially when factoring in this weird not-exactly-canon-universe I ended up in.
Still. When I'm older, I'm definitely going to whoop Pai's ass for making Mãe a mother at 18. Ya' hear that, Poseidon!