Chapter Text
Old walls sigh in dust—
laughter sparks where things fall down,
room made for the light.
The Chrysler surged backwards, Chrysaor behind the wheel, trying to ease it out of the building.
The rear bumper only hammered into the jagged mouth of the lobby wall. A section of brickwork gave up and slid free, collapsing in a coughing spill of dust and mortar. Yet, the car stayed wedged halfway through, like a gold tooth in a broken jaw.
Percy focused on his brother.
For a man currently dismantling a government building with his obnoxiously overindulgent golden car, Chrysaor didn’t look particularly passionate. He sat loose behind the wheel, masked head tilted slightly as he checked his mirrors, the very picture of a commuter stalled in a particularly annoying traffic jam.
Then he put his foot down.
CRUNCH.
The sound buzzed straight through his teeth, rattling his molars like loose change in a pocket. Percy pressed his tongue against them on instinct, just checking they were all still there.
They were.
Still there. Still sharp.
What a relief.
The golden Chrysler screeched, its tyres smoking against the cracked linoleum of the lobby floor, sending the acrid scent of burnt rubber to compete with the rising dust. With a sound like a harpooned whale breaking free, it finally won its argument with the architecture. The car tore free, dragging a twisted garland of rebar and jagged masonry with it.
Percy whooped, punching the air.
Chrysaor tipped his mask toward Percy as he got out of the driver’s seat. One big arm swung in this huge, ridiculous flourish—vanity, clearly, was his favourite muscle. But, well…Yup, that was insanely cool. Percy was giving him full credit. No arguments here.
Next, his brother slid into a police cruiser and drove it into the spot the Chrysler had just vacated.
Callirrhoe circled the cruiser, eyes sweeping over every angle. Chrysaor leaned against it, one finger tapping on the roof.
She came back around. Said nothing and went back to her inspection. A second finger joined in.
Another lap. Another finger. By the fourth, Percy was pretty sure Chrysaor was one lap away from a full-blown Phil Collins drum solo.
“Well?” he burst out, his rhythm finally snapping into a frustrated slap against the metal. “Satisfied, or do you need to check the tyre pressure with your teeth?”
Callirrhoe didn’t even look up. She just ran a finger along the cruiser’s door frame, checking for a gap that didn’t exist.
“What do you think?” she asked, her voice like cool silk.
Chrysaor’s shoulders hiked up to his ears, and his sword hilt rattled in its scabbard from the sheer force of his trembling grip.
“What do I think? I think I’ve spent the last ten minutes watching you walk in circles! I think the paint is still white, the sirens are still blue, and I am about three seconds away from driving this thing into the harbour just to see it sink!”
He threw his hands up, his heavy rings clattering against each other. “Is it good enough for the plan or not?”
“If you have to ask,” she said softly, “you clearly haven't been paying attention.”
Percy had to turn away, coughing into his mother’s hip to disguise a snort. Above him, he felt the vibration of a dry, huffed laugh leave her chest. He couldn't see Chrysaor’s expression, but he didn't need to—the way the man was currently vibrating, it was a miracle his mask didn't just pop off his face like a champagne cork.
“THAT IS NOT AN ANSWER!” Chrysaor bellowed, his voice cracking with a very un-pirate-like shriek of pure ego-death.
“You want an answer?” Callirrhoe repeated, finally looking at him. “I think no mortal vehicle would look this pristine after allegedly crashing through a reinforced masonry wall.”
“That’s what the Mist is for!” Chrysaor shrieked. The golden mask remained a fixed, impassive snarl, but his hands were flying through the air as if he were trying to swat a swarm of invisible hornets. “It’s literally its only job! It’s a magical filter for the unimaginative!”
“The Mist,” she countered, her voice dropping into that slow, over-articulated crawl Percy was sadly familiar with—the tone people used when they decided the jumbled-up alphabet in his head meant the rest of him must be lagging too, “works best when it has a foundation of reality to anchor itself to. It is an embellishment, not a miracle. Right now, your ‘accident’ looks like a car showroom.”
She gave him a look over her shoulder that didn't need translating. It was a silent command to shut up and let the professional handle the thinking.
Chrysaor went rigid. For a moment, the only sound was the heavy rasp of his breathing behind the metal faceplate. Then, he suddenly wound up and delivered a brutal kick to the front passenger door.
The metal surrendered with a magnificent, hollow crunch, folding inward like a discarded soda can.
“There!” Chrysaor spat, his voice vibrating with a frantic, bottled-up energy. “Is that foundational enough for you?”
He withdrew his boot, staring at the jagged crater he’d left in the door. He nudged the buckled metal with his toe, his golden mask tilting as if he couldn't believe the car had the audacity to break so easily. It was the way Percy felt when a Lego tower fell over before he was even finished—like the toy had betrayed him on purpose.
“Look at this shoddy craftsmanship!” Percy’s brother barked, turning his fury from the woman to the machine. “A single kick and it folds like a wet napkin. I barely exerted myself! This is what the mortals are driving these days? It’s practically made of hope and recycled soda cans!”
Callirrhoe surveyed the damage with the clinical detachment of a coroner. “Well,” she deadpanned, “not everyone has the luxury of driving a customised chariot forged by the Divine Smith of the Lemnian Fires.”
“There is a world of difference—a literal cosmos—between the Smith’s mastery and... this,” Chrysaor retorted, punctuating the sentence with another kick that sent the side-skirt flying.
He took two ginger steps back, hands raised as if he feared that even breathing too hard in the cruiser’s general direction might cause the entire frame to dissolve into dust.
“Why stop now?” Callirrhoe asked, her voice light and biting, gesturing vaguely at the pristine hood. “It’s still far too intact, Chrysaor darling. Unless, of course, the great pirate captain is afraid of a little scrap metal?”
Chrysaor froze for a heartbeat, coiled like a spring.
Then he spun around and brought a gloved fist down on the rear window. Glass exploded outward in a glittering storm, tinkling across the lobby floor like tiny bells. He hit the frame beneath it again, metal caving under the impact with a satisfying groan.
Percy staggered back a step, wide-eyed, heart hammering. This was insane—and amazing. He watched shards clatter, metal fold, and Chrysaor’s shoulders ease a fraction with every ruined piece of the car.
Therapeutic. Cathartic. Pure, ridiculous—
Fun.
“ME TOO! ME TOO! ME TOO—!”
Percy let go of his mom’s hand and launched himself at full speed. He was a small, blue-shirted blur of kinetic energy, charging the police cruiser with the same intensity he usually reserved for a runaway ice cream truck. He reached the side of the car and unleashed a flurry of kicks.
Sadly, the only parts of it he could reach were the tyres, and they remained thoroughly unimpressed, absorbing his hits with a dull, rubbery thud that didn't even leave a scuff.
“Bite it, little shark!” Bakkhe appeared at the edge of the hood, her eyes wide with a manic, glassy sheen. “ Strip the skin from the iron beast! Show us the soft, black guts inside!”
Percy paused and looked at her fondly, his chest heaving. Bakkhe was the best. Most adults spent their time telling him not to put things in his mouth. Pennies, Lego heads, the hem of his shirt, bad guys—it was a constant battle of ‘don't eat that.’ But she looked at him with a wild, wide-eyed hunger that matched his own, her face lit with the manic pride of a teacher watching a star pupil finally solve a difficult equation. She didn't want him to be "well-behaved"; she wanted him to be a disaster.
“It’s the skin of the wind!” she hissed, her fingers clawing at the air. “Taste the friction, little shark! Peel the road from the bone!”
Percy didn't need to be told twice. Surely his teeth would prove more effective than his kicks. He stared down the front-left Michelin, gauging the distance.
But before he could mount his second assault, two large hands hooked under his armpits. He was hoisted into the air and deposited unceremoniously onto the centre of the hood.
“Go to town, guppy,” Chrysaor said, his voice light and encouraging. “But maybe skip the rubber appetisers? You’ll get a stomach ache.”
Percy let out a long sigh that whistled through his jutting lower lip. It was a total conspiracy. The second he tried to get his molars involved, the biteblockers stepped in. If he wasn’t allowed to show off his best assets, what was even the point of having them?
Well, if he was forbidden from biting, he might as well go back to the wanton destruction.
He gathered every ounce of his weight and jumped, waiting for the satisfying metal groan of a crater forming beneath him. He tried again and, well…same results.
He stopped, his breath coming in little huffs, looking down at the pristine white paint that had refused to yield. His lower lip jutted out so far it was practically a shelf.
A short, crystalline sound cut through his frustration.
Percy spun around, his face hot with outrage. Callirrhoe looked impassive, but he could see the dancing mirth in her eyes and the way her lips were pinched tight from the effort of trying to swallow a giggle.
The audacity was staggering.
He turned to Chrysaor, expecting his brother to back him up—to maybe draw a sword or at least tell her to shut her stupid face.
But Chrysaor was a traitor.
The golden mask was tilted down, and a strange, muffled wheezing sound was coming from behind the faceplate. It sounded like a teakettle beginning to whistle. His brother—could he even be called that at this point?—was vibrating with the effort of not losing it completely.
Car forgotten, Percy narrowed his eyes. The cruiser wouldn't dent, fine. He knew something that would dent. Chrysaor had shins, and more importantly, Chrysaor had shins that Percy’s teeth could reach unassisted.
It was time for the bite revival.
He crouched, ready to launch himself at his brother’s knees for a very personal demonstration of his perfect dentition, but Chrysaor saw the murder in his eyes. Before Percy could spring, his brother reached into the broken driver’s side window. He pulled out a heavy, black police baton and held it out like a peace offering.
Percy froze, his mouth already open for the initial bite. He looked at the baton. He looked at the car.
Okay. The bite could be postponed. Vengeance was a dish best served later; right now, he had a tool for mass destruction.
The pout vanished, replaced by a shark-like grin that was about ninety per cent teeth. He gripped the handle with both hands, raised it over his head like a tiny executioner, and went to work.
Behind him, Bakkhe now had company. Hortensia was draped in a police high-visibility vest she’d found somewhere, wearing it like a cape, while Glykis was beating a rhythm on a dented riot shield with a heavy stapler.
"Crush it, little Prince!" they shrieked every three beats.
"Blood in the water! Gnaw to the bone!" Bakkhe howled, spinning in a circle until her hair whipped the air. She began to chant, a dissonant, tonal sound that didn't belong in a precinct. "The small shark eats the big boat! Eat! Eat! Eat!"
WHACK.
The baton hit the hood, and this time, a beautiful, jagged dent appeared exactly where he’d aimed.
Percy whipped his head toward Chrysaor, his hair wild and eyes blown wide with triumph.
Chrysaor let out a bark of a laugh, leaning back against the shattered doorframe. He sketched a mock-salute with two fingers. "Passable," the pirate drawled. "A bit more shoulder next time, guppy."
The rhythm of the stapler against the shield sped up, matching the frantic pounding of Percy’s own heart. He turned back to the car, the nymphs’ shrieks fueling the pressure building in his chest.
Percy whipped the baton down.
WHACK. The hood buckled.
“EAT! EAT! EAT!” Bakkhe shrieked. Percy echoed her, teeth gritted, heart hammering.
WHACK. Metal groaned.
“Blood in the water!” Hortensia cried, cape-flapping. Percy laughed.
“That’s for being stupid cops!” he yelled, the baton coming down with a weight that felt like a crashing wave.
WHACK.
“And that’s for,” He swung again, leaning into the blow with everything he had.
WHACK.
“...ARRESTING!” he roared, matching every shout with a furious swing.
WHACK.
“MY—!”
WHACK.
“MOM!”