So, first off, I just want to say that I 100% got choked up reading the comments on my last chapter, so thank you, so much for those. Next, I'd like to address that that is absolutely my favourite chapter in this book, and I'm so glad people enjoyed it. Lastly, I want to state and make it clear that I will not be writing the big fight scene, since I've never been good at that kind of stuff, and continue to struggle with it. I will write this chapter, maybe including a rough poem next, and then the epilogue. Or, you know, you could just stop reading here and imagine whatever you want- I can't please everyone after all.
P.S. I am like, super done right now and I had the rest of the book finished before this one chapter. And I still hate this one. You can skip it. Like, I'm totally fine with you skipping it.
P.P.S. I've finally decided to just cut everything, write a short little paragraph, and include some of the could-have-been-usable bits at the end for anyone who wants to know what I was so frustrated on. I'm sorry, I just couldn't force anything to connect, and I can't stand to sit here any longer. There is no way I can finish this and be satisfied, so I'm making the only 100% canon bit this first part:
"We must fight together, but most importantly, we must stand together, and be the cane to help others stand themselves. We must win this final battle not because our parents want us to, not because of lust for glory or power, or any other reason besides this; we must win, because winning means survival, and survival means that your brethren will not be hurled into mourning once more. It means that, if you watch each other's backs, you will all live to see another day.
"So many of us are world weary. So many of us are tired of fighting battles to seemingly no end. So many of us do not wish to see another shroud burned, another grave dug, another headstone being carved.
"So we are going to turn all of them to dust, and live to watch another sunset by our friends'- our family's- side. There is no such thing as good luck. Just the hope and courage you have yourself, through the faith of your companions. Even if you had nothing but your bare body and a stick, I want to know you would fight just as eagerly as you are about to now, then I want to see your spirit amplified by the army surrounding you.
"I'm sorry you aren't kids anymore. I'm sorry that you missed out on your childhood. But for every person who ends up like us, there's another hundred families out there, laughing together because we won.
"So let's get out there and obliterate some monsters."
The heroes' battle cries unified, and echoed across the valley, competing with the stomping of feet, the clashing of swords and armor, the growling and hissing of monsters before dying away to make room for the cacophonous symphony of war.
That's it. Sorry. The rest of this would've come before Percy's big speech here, as a sort of flashback, but then I couldn't choose a character, and couldn't write enough for Bruce, or Loki, or Thor, so I was forced to leave it.
~1 hour previous~
~Tony~
Tony was running calculations with JARVIS, constantly asking the AI about odds and past battles and different breeds of Greek monsters.
His suit was completely coated in celestial bronze, and the parts that weren't had been treated with a unique method some Hephaestus kids had come up with decades ago.
Under normal circumstances, Tony would've been distressed and embarrassed to find a group of children smarter than him, and capable of this. Under normal circumstances, he might've tried to uncover all of their secrets and read into everything about them, with no heed for their privacy. Under normal circumstances, Tony wouldn't even have access to the children, or their techniques, or their metals, because they were used exclusively for demigods and turning hellish monsters into golden pixie dust.
Needless to say, these were not normal circumstances.
Tony frowned, his fingers hovering for a moment above the wires and buttons he was fiddling with. His exhaustion finally got the better of him and he leaned back in his chair, the supports creaking under the weight. Tony's sigh was heavy and revealed his pain and bitterness for the world to see. The world being an empty cabin with only his AI and his thoughts to keep him company.
Tony had done a lot of dangerous things in his lifetime, most of which he regretted. But now, he did one of the most perilous things he could do- he thought.
He let his mind wander.
To how he didn't want to keep fighting battles. How he didn't want kids to fight them either, as Captain America as that statement sounded. How he vehemently loathed the fact that he couldn't keep them from fighting, and the best he could do was jump into the fray(stopping fight with more fighting- great job).
He pondered how his days back in college had been, or even before that. After. His friendships with Rhodey and Pepper and how long they'd survived; how much they'd endured.
Tony wondered about what he would have been, had he not had a father like Howard Stark, not had the legacy dumped upon him after that fateful car crash, not turned to drinking and partying and useless flings to cope. Had he not gone through Afghanistan. Had he not broken free, creating Iron Man, Mark I.
What would have happened if all of that, and everything that followed were wiped from his history, leaving him a blank slate, right where he was today?
It didn't matter, not really, but Tony still drifted to those ideas, lingered over his doubts. His fear remained, just as firmly rooted in him as the hunk of high-tech metal in his chest.
In any case, no matter what topic, no matter how shallow or deep Tony allowed himself to go, it was still terrifying, every time he lost himself to the insecurities and scars(mental, emotional and otherwise) that had never fully left him.
Tony thought.
And that brought him back 'round to this camp, with this cabin, and these kids. He could relate to them, some more than others, but there was one boy specifically who was just so not-Tony that it intrigued him.
The boy had all but glued himself to Tony once they'd met. His name was Harley.
Harley was bright and optimistic and cheerful. He was determined and hard-working and passionate about every little thing.
Harley was the one who could barely hold himself back, at the simple mention of his brother's name, from once again spiraling into a husk of what he normally was, a shell of the small, enthusiastic yet not at all naïve boy he should have been.
This Leo that Tony was so similar to...he'd broken this boy, without ever meaning to. Just by being a self sacrificing hero.
Harley still held onto the blueprints from who knew how long ago. Blueprints, for a beacon; lain out under a worn drawing of a flying ship with a bronze dragon as the masthead.
Harley was a good kid, despite the garbage hand he'd been dealt in life, and he moved on from those issues in(relatively) healthy ways, and always remained positive, except for the occasional self-deprecating joke to hide his anguish.
According to Percy, Leo was most of the things Harley was, too.
So how could Leo be anything like Tony?
Tony, the alcoholic.
Tony, the problem child.
Tony, the self-proclaimed genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.
Tony, who was Iron Man, a hero figure created from a terrorist kidnapping.
Tony, who was damaged, beyond repair.
And Tony, who thought.
Thought that maybe he needed something to look forward to, something to get him through another fight. Thought that learning to be like Harley, who brought so much joy in such a short time, would be his new goal.
Tony Stark, the man behind the mask, who has physical proof of his heart, which shone so bright it was visible through most of his shirts(literally), and who is going to try. Try to fix the one thing he thought hopelessly irreparable, until he met Harley. Himself.
After years of closing himself off from his family and friends, cutting himself off from the world and reality in the worst ways he could manage, Tony wanted to change for the better, and learn to wear his heart on his sleeve, yet keep it safe at the same time.
He'd try and learn to- no, he would be alive again, just like the little boy, the ball of sunshine who never let his grief get to him, named Harley Ahi-Piccioli.
Just make it through this fight first.
Tony set his mind back to the task at hand, the fire in his eyes renewed and hands flying as though his life depended on it.
(It did.)
~Steve~
Steve didn't have much to do. He'd trained with the military, but the regimen here looked to be even harsher than his own training before and after his growth spurt. All he'd needed was to grab a few guns to strap on to his belt in case of emergency, test out his newly celestial bronze coated shield, and then...nothing.
So, rather than feel entirely useless and sit in his cabin sighing, Steve decided to feel entirely useless and sat in his cabin drawing.
At some point, he started on a miniature quest for a fine-tipped pen(why it was so important specifically eluded him, but he searched nonetheless). This led him to stumbling upon the boy from the cemetery, Nico.
Strangely, he also seemed to be sketching something in a notebook of some sort, and was either too preoccupied to acknowledge Steve, or too disinterested in the man out of time to care. His ego hoped it was the former.
The teen glanced up soon enough, however, and greeted him with a slight tilt of his chin.
"Hello."
"Um, hi," Steve said, cautiously stepping forward to be sure he hadn't misinterpreted the silent cues to sit down somewhere for this conversation.
"If I may, why exactly are you here?" Nico questioned, still adding to the light strokes on his page.
"I was...drawing, and needed a pen. Somehow I wound up here. Do you draw too?" Steve couldn't help but ask. Nico grunted, shifting from his place to look over at Steve.
"No, I'm buttering bread right now. It hasn't succeeded due to the lack of both butter and bread, but this is close enough right?" It was snarky, maybe more sarcastic than even Tony would've come up with, but Steve was too caught up in the picture on the page.
It was excellently done, depicting what could best be described as a female version of Nico, had he been a little bit younger and possessed a more normal color scheme(skin tone and eye color included in that).
The figure was crouched low to the ground, front leg outstretched as her back was bent under her as she pulled back in arrow, ready to fire from an intricate bow. The tension in her stance was undeniable, yet she gave off the presence of inner peace, as cheesy as it sounded. The girl was wearing whites and silvers and golds, contrasting with the dark strands of hair flying around her face.
Nico turned the book away to continue working before Steve could examine it further. "You're really good. Who is she?"
Nico paused. "My sister." Sister? Oh, right. His sister.
"Bianca...she was an archer? In the...Hunt."
"Yeah. Before that she liked to get really into all this nature stuff, and was already obsessed with the idea of running away, in the wild with no one else around to judge or restrain her. Not that she'd admit to that. It was back at the military academy anyways."
Subject change. Dead sisters were not a safe topic, especially not near a highly volatile demigod.
"How long have you been interested in art?"
Nico stayed silent, but the hovering of his hand over the paper demonstrated that he had heard. "...I can't remember." He sounded dead serious, as though he had no clue, nothing resembling a preconception as to when he'd started doing this task, one that he was so well-versed in and so obviously possessed natural talent and skill for that Steve would've had to be a fool to think it hadn't been cultivated over years.
How does one forget that which they cared about as much as Nico did his art?
"What?"
"I swear I mentioned this. My father took out memories by dipping us in the Lethe before sending us to the Lotus and later the academy. I did a little bit of sketching here and there, when I could, but even if I couldn't remember it, I knew I'd drawn before. A lot, actually, but the brief flashes I get are all Hades-related memories. Bianca and mom aren't around to remind me of anything, and I was probably the first person I forgot, so, you know..." he explained.
Steve felt a pang inside his chest. He remembered growing up, and his training, and, oh God, Bucky, and everything before the ice, but still chose to complain on how he couldn't remember the past 7 decades. This man, this kid, didn't even know who he was before he was abandoned in a casino of all places. His sister, his mother, his entire childhood, was all wiped away by his own father. Then he woke up one day and found himself being taken to some stupidly strict school and adapting to the 21st century without even knowing it was the 21st century. Really?
"I think," Steve said cautiously(Nico thought him impulsive and naïve), "in case we die, or you die or I die, I'd like to be friends with you," Steve stated. Nico leveled a vaguely interested look. "You don't even know me."
"Then I'd like to get to know you."
"Fine," Nico said shortly, "What's your story, 'Capsicle'" So he'd payed at least a little bit of attention to Tony at some point. Enough to pick up the nicknames at least.
"That could take a long time, and reminiscing about a war I didn't see the end of doesn't seem to be the best idea considering the armies on the horizon, even if the big bad guy isn't here this time around."
Everyone was informed that the tar person- Tartarus(Steve shuddered)- wouldn't be rising for a while. Or at least, Nico and Percy had informed them that Percy was going to pull something, that would most likely result in his own pain, but would benefit the world as a whole and only he was capable of. Nico would've been forced to agree, and it didn't look like he was exactly happy about the plan.
Nico snorted. "Would you rather start with the imbecilic queries of age or favorite colors? Maybe we can grab a beach ball with childish questions written in each section to play a little icebreaker. Oh, wait, you know all about icebreakers don't you?"
Okay, that was harsh. And very well-worded. And it hit him hard. But Nico, after all his life had become, must have had defense mechanisms. Lashing out by using the weaknesses he somehow knew a person had was one of those.
Steve persevered. "I guess I do. But, seriously..." Nico gave a dark chuckle at his loss of words. "There it is," he murmured, straightening his back and shifting closer as though preparing to negotiate.
"Now, what exactly is it that you want? Some old comrades brought back for a conversation? Or maybe a girlfriend. Perhaps you've heard about the soul for a soul trade and want to partake? Say the right things, and I'm willing to even to make a standard deal."
"I-I don't wa-"
"Don't lie to me, 'Captain'," Nico sneered, and Steve shivered at the sound of his title being used so derisively grating against his ears.
"That's not what I came here to discuss, I swear to you," Steve amended earnestly.
"A mortal's word is not worth much. In fact, neither is a god's."
The green flames lighting the torches in the room flickered black and blue, casting even more shadows around the room. "Nico-"
"You don't want to be friends, Rogers. Don't pretend like you do. What you want, instead, is a replacement, something to satisfy you, by knowing they are like you, but worse, and at the same time know exactly what you're feeling sometimes, but are too impure to understand at others, when you've 'gone through so much more than them'. To know that there is someone out there who has been taken from your time and ended up even more messed up than you. It makes you feel better, doesn't it? The assurance that you're still the star-spangled sentinel of liberty no matter how twisted you know you've gotten.
"You're not willing to sacrifice your life anymore, are you? No, you refuse to trade lives, but not in the way Perci refuses it. You do it because you don't want to lose any more, you'd feel guilty, because your ideals have changed into more selfish things and if anyone dies, that's on you, and you'd be the one facing the truth, Rogers."
Nico was standing, and suddenly Steve was staring him in his dark, dark eyes, so soulless and hellish he couldn't stand to keep looking. At the same time, he couldn't look away.
He wanted to deny it, so, so badly. Why couldn't he?
"You wanted to prove yourself, defend your country? Then once you get the chance you just- just go along with them as they parade you around like a glorified zoo monkey. Did you think about your family, your friends, your team, at all? No, of course not. 'Cause you were too busy not fighting, not watching people die for the sake of your sanity, not facing what war actually is. You're a selfish, selfish coward."
Nico scoffed, shrugging. "I could be wrong. There's a first time for everything, after all. So prove it. Or can't you?"
Nico was trying to provoke him. He knew it. It didn't change anything. Nico smirked, backing away at the expression on Steve's face.
"There it is. Just keep that in mind out there, alright? 'Cause pulling any, 'if you die, you die heroes' or 'I'll make sure you make it out, I promise' crap, then I'm going to bring back every person you promised, and make you look them in the eye as they tell you how you failed them, how you lied.
"You couldn't even save yourself. What makes you think you can save us? False hope ain't appreciated here, and from you, kids like Harley and Christine will still buy it, no matter what kind of crap they've been through. Then it'll be crushed again, breaking 'em further.
"You go out there, you're fully prepared to die. You're fully prepared to watch others die. You'll do anything to stop it, within reason, but you follow the plan. You're a soldier, act like it. Take your orders and obey. Morals have no place in our lives, not when they only hurt us all over again, not when it comes to war.
"You, Steve Rogers, joined the army, took the serum, and went on that 'final' mission by choice, all of it to save people. But you can't save everyone. Learn that, and be the soldier you're supposed to be, but never acted like. I don't care if you think there's a better option. You go out there, and fight like one 'til your dying breath, or you don't go out there at all. You got me?"
Steve didn't need to answer him.
~Natasha~
Natasha was an assassin. Natasha was a spy. Natasha was a liar.
Natasha was a lot of things.
But Natasha wasn't remorseful. She didn't apologize sincerely, or try to make and maintain connections with her comrades(aside from Clint).
And Clarisse La Rue didn't mention her best friend to someone she'd just met.
The week was full of surprises.
"I," Natasha had gritted out. "would like to apologize for what I said before. It was insensitive and presumptuous of me and I am sorry."
The girl hadn't paid her any mind. It was fair, Natasha told herself, to be mad over this kind of insult. Maybe waiting until after the war was a good idea.
Natasha stood there for a reasonable amount of time, before turning to leave, having said the main message of her piece, however blunt it may have been. It was clear that this wasn't a conversation, and she refused to talk to the back of a teenage girl's head-
"Are you now?"
Natasha whipped back around hating how torn up she was about this, and loathing even more the fact that this girl knew it and was subtly manipulating her emotions, however harmless it seemed. Then detesting even further the fact that she would've done the same thing, once upon a time.
"Because, see, you knew what we were when you came here. You knew that we'd lived difficult lives. You knew that the world rested on our shoulders and that should we drop it, everyone around us would perish. You knew how desperate some of us would be to do that, just to spite those who left us to carry that burden alone. You knew you were going to use it against us, and that you were better than us. But your not. And it wasn't very heroic or repentant of you to make those assumptions, was it?"
Natasha bristled. She already knew she was an awful person, she already knew that she'd made unforgiveable mistakes a thousand times over, she already knew she was at best a dastardly anti-hero and at worst an irredeemable murderer, but she was trying.
Because now she understood, that, yes, she absolutely went through horrible things, but her past did not define her and she had the ability to change it. Demigods' only options were forget and disgrace the memories, move on peacefully yet long for Death's sweet embrace, or go mad trying to fix what has already been done because they are unable to come to terms.
Natasha didn't want to go through what this girl had. Was that a pathetic show of weakness on Natasha's part or tormented strength on Clarisse's? Both? Neither? Did it matter? All she knew was, she was clearing the red in her ledger, slowly but surely, by flushing it out with golden dust.
Clarisse was looking at her, scanning her reaction.
"I ain't forgettin', girly. And I sure as Hades ain't forgivin' yet, but...I think I could stand to die beside you on the battlefield."
Natasha eyed her warily.
The girl snorted. "That's my way of saying, I'll fight with you, you can earn that precious forgiveness you want to bad- atoning for sins was never really my thing, but whatever floats your boat I guess- and we've got a temporary truce."
Natasha gazed back at her cooly. "Get me some of the armor you're sure to have hidden around here and we've got a deal."
Clarisse barked out a laugh. "You aren't in the position to make demands. But sure, fine. Just now that if you abandon us, refuse to fight-"
What was said next does not need to be repeated.
~Clint~
Clint was an assassin- he'd trained to be used to killing, done everything in his power to adjust to taking a life and succeeded to the point where he didn't show any sadness at the fear on a target's face. But he never grew used to death. He never numbed to the sensation of watching the light fade from a target's eyes.
So he looked away.
Some thought him heartless for not even caring enough to look them in the eye, and maybe he was. For different reasons than they thought, yet a coward still. But what was that saying? Those who seem heartless once cared too much?
Laura was the light of his life. Then his kids came along, and his heart grew bigger to accommodate them, allowing them to own a small piece of his heart that was theirs and theirs alone. He'd done his best to keep the two sides of his life separate, but did these kids have the same choice? Their killing...it was defense, and they had to defend themselves everyday- did that mean they had no time for a normal life? A childhood? How could they deal?
And the gods...how could they even consider leaving their kids here, wondering who their parent was and being shoved into one cabin if they weren't useful enough to know. How could they abandon their own children, forcing them to fight and panic and close themselves off to handle the harshness of their worlds, making them defend themselves from enemies out to get them because of their parents, simply for existing and being convenient, and then help their parents in wars and battles.
The demigods weren't even really acknowledged for doing any of that stuff, and while their lives were constantly endangered by creatures who wanted revenge against their parents, those same mothers and fathers couldn't care less when one of their kids was brutally murdered in the woods, or endured an abusive, neglectful household.
It made Clint sick.
Sick, because he cared too much. Did that mean he wasn't heartless yet? Because he still had the capacity to care?
It didn't matter anyways. Clint was an Avenger, so avenge he would. He'd fight for these kids, and all the ones out there who were still so lost, because their own parents were too disgraceful to do it(yes he knew that it was dangerous to bad-mouth literal gods, but he didn't care).
Clint would give them the redemption they deserved, instead of condemning them with a sack of sins that they didn't.
Clint may have been just an archer, and standing next to another expert assassin, a super soldier, a billionaire genius who built super-powered suits, a doctor who could transform into a giant, green rage monster, and an alien with a magical lightning hammer, his skill set paled hilariously in comparison.
However Clint had one thing none of them had. A family to return to(did that seem heartless?).
He'd do whatever it took to get back to them tomorrow morning. And he'd do even more to not picture a demigod's dead body in place of his son or daughter because he wasn't good enough to save them.
I'm so done with this.
I wrote and finished the last three chapters like, months ago.
I'm out.
~DarkCooki3