From Part Three:
So it’s not exactly the best of moods he wakes to when four hours later, a teenage girl pokes him, standing above him with her hands on her hips. He blinks, thinking he’s still locked in a dream. “Can I help you?” he murmurs, skimming the edge of coherence.
Her eyes are ringed with heavy black eyeliner – they make her eyes even brighter feverish blue. And she is studying him with extreme intensity. He feels as if he is a bug that has been pinned on a corkboard to be examined by scientists. “Bleargh,” he says. She looks a bit familiar, as if he’s seen her somewhere before – oh, yes! “Hunter. You’re one of the Hunters, aren’t you?” He can’t imagine why she’s come here to find him, in the shadier section of Washington D.C.
She nods. She kneels so she’s closer to his height. “Percy Jackson,” she says. “I’ve found you at last. It’s been a couple hundred years. And wow, are you a poor excuse for a human being in this lifetime.”
…And it’s way too early in the morning for him to process that in his head. He sits up, rubbing his forehead and realizing he really needs a shave. “What?” he says, none too articulately. Then, he lets his brain do a little bit of catching up with his ears. “What did you call me?”
“Percy Jackson,” she repeats. “It’s taken me months to find you, after Chiron told me you had left for good, and that – jeez, you’re reborn as a son of Hermes? What is that? Anyway, he said you were probably wandering around the country like a no-good jobless hobo, and that you grew up here, so I figured D.C. would be the best bet.”
She looks so sure about it. He coughs and rubs his hands together. The fire has gone out. “I’m not really sure what you’re talking about, actually,” he says. “I’m James Fording. Chiron knows that.”
Regular posts return on Monday, as usual (because I'm always so ordered and schedule-like, you know).