Catch Fire || P. Jackson

𝟏.𝟏𝟐

𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 𝐓𝐖𝐎 hours to reach the docks in Alameda.

Frank had stored his spear, bow, and quiver in a long bag made for skis. Hazel's cavalry sword was wrapped in a bedroll slung on her back. Lea looked the most normal. Her pack was filled with changes of clothes, toiletries and other miscellaneous things they would find themselves needing. Her weapon was stored safely inside a thin band with a sun in the centre. Jason's shield stayed tucked inside his ring on her other hand.

Together, the four of them looked like normal high schoolers on their way to an overnight trip. They walked to Rockridge Station, bought their tickets with mortal money, and hopped on the BART train. Frank, Hazel, and Percy occupied themselves the entire time with random conversation starters and a pack of UNO cards from Lea's supplies. Lea observed but never joined in. They got off in Oakland.

They had to walk through some rough neighbourhoods, but nobody bothered them. Whenever the local gang members came close enough to look in Percy's eyes, they quickly veered away. He'd perfected his wolf stare over the last few months—a look that said: However bad you think you are, I'm worse. Frank had the exact opposite look in his eyes—a look that said: Ahh! Please don't hurt me!

Thankfully for him, a very intimidating-looking Lea was trailing just off his shoulder like a terrifying guard dog. No one bothered them.

In the late afternoon, they made it to the Alameda docks. Percy looked out over San Francisco Bay and breathed in the salty sea air.

Immediately he felt better. This was his father's domain. Whatever they faced, he'd have the upper hand as long as they were at sea. Dozens of boats were moored at the docks—everything from fifty-foot yachts to ten-foot fishing boats. He scanned the slips for some sort of magic vessel—a trireme, maybe, or a dragon-headed warship like he'd seen in his dreams.

"Um... you guys know what we're looking for?"

Hazel and Frank shook their heads. "I didn't even know we had a navy." Hazel sounded as if she wished there wasn't one.

"We don't," Lea muttered, scuffing her converse on the wooden deck beneath her. "Trust me, we might as well float on a plastic bag."

"Oh..." Frank pointed. "You don't think...?"

At the end of the dock was a tiny boat, like a dinghy, covered in a purple tarp.

Embroidered in faded gold along the canvas was S.P.Q.R. Percy's confidence wavered. "No way." He uncovered the boat, his hands working the knots like he'd been doing it his whole life. Under the tarp was an old steel rowboat with no oars. The boat had been painted dark blue at one point, but the hull was saturated with tar and salt it looked like one massive nautical bruise. On the bow, the name Pax was still readable, lettered in gold. Painted eyes drooped sadly at the water level as if the boat were about to fall asleep.

On board were two benches, some steel wool, an old cooler, and a mound of frayed rope with one end tied to the mooring. At the bottom of the boat, a plastic bag and two empty Coke cans floated in several inches of scummy water.

"Behold," Frank said. "The mighty Roman navy."

"There's got to be a mistake," Hazel said. "This is a piece of junk."

"This is the height of luxury, Hazel."

Percy imagined Octavian laughing at them, but he decided not to let it get him down. The Pax was still a boat. He jumped aboard, and the hull hummed under his feet, responding to his presence. He gathered up the garbage in the cooler and put it on the dock. He willed the scummy water to flow over the sides and out of the boat. Then, he pointed at the steel wool and it flew across the floor, scrubbing and polishing so fast, the steel began to smoke. When it was done, the boat was clean. Percy pointed at the rope, and it untied itself from the dock. No oars, but that didn't matter.