Apple of Discord: Chapter 1

You yawn and stretch before performing your usual demigod pre-quest pat-down.

Let’s see, house key? Check.
Clean underwear? Let’s not worry about that one for now.
Appropriate footwear, appropriate clothes? Check.
Note to your family so they won’t worry? Check.
Sword? Check.

You hear what sounds like a massive and mystical can of soda being opened.

Turning, you find a swirling mass of purplish light and magical energy. The rest of your house looks like it always has. Pretty much the same. You aren’t the same. Your heartbeat is increasing, adrenaline coursing through your body.

It’s that time again.
It’s your time.
Time to save the world.

You vault over a piece of furniture and run toward the portal, sword in hand. As you pass into the bright, crackling energy of the gate you are overwhelmed by the smell of ripe grapes and the medicine-like scent of leaves and vines.

The disorienting swirl of light and smells is unceremoniously interrupted by a thunderous belching noise. Was that a burp? Then, the smell of Diet Coke washes over you. Yeah, that’s Mr. D making sure you know that nothing’s free.

“I’m blessing you, kid.” Mr. D materializes in the swirl of energy.

He holds up a dismissive hand. “Don’t think you’re all that, okay? All I’ve given you is the power of magical perception. So you can see the Apple pieces and anything else ‘Zero’ may be trying to hide from you.” Mr. D almost spits the name out. 

“While I don’t like the guy, you’re gonna have to work for this. Seriously. Do the work.” Mr. D’s eyes flash a dangerous shade of purple. “Peter Johnson had it easy. Shoulda had his whole thing wrapped up in two books. Just saying,” Mr. D states, with a verbal shrug. “I hope you’re faster.”

You entertain the notion of hugging the god of wine but think better of it. Instead you mutter a thank you.

“Yeah, whatever. Go! Do the thing.” Mr. D shakes his head.

The swirl of light ends abruptly. You squeeze your eyes tightly shut and plant both feet firmly on the ground, waiting to fill ill or dizzy. Nothing.  Well, that’s not like Mr. D.

You open your eyes slowly. It’s cloudy and raining lightly. You’re in a driveway on a normal looking residential street somewhere in Austin, Texas.

The front door to the house opens and your sword trainer walks toward you with a celestial bronze khopesh in hand. Master Da’Mon stops a polite six feet away. He is assessing you.

You’ve heard stories about this guy. He’s a legend. Half Eyptian and Half Greek —a child of a god in each pantheon. Connor Stoll told you a story about him. 

“Yeah, they call him the Lion of Storms. One of the Ares cabin kids said Master Da’Mon just looked at one of Commodus’s lieutenants, and he fell apart.”

“Fell apart?” you asked, confused. “Like, Master Da’Mon started crying or something?”

“Nah. The bad guy literally fell apart, all over the place.” Connor gestured wildly. “Body parts everywhere.” Gross.

You can see it happening. Master Da’Mon is six feet of muscle and moves with a dancer’s grace. He’s covered neck to foot in athletic Under Armour, the color of midnight. He’s wearing black shorts and a vintage bright orange Camp Half-Blood tee-shirt and black trainers.

“You ready, demigod?” Master Da’Mon doesn’t smile. “I have five lessons for you. I hope you didn’t come here for easy. I don’t do easy.”

You try to smile, but instead you make a sort of smile grimace thing with a dribbly whine that comes out like, “Noookay?”