Crystalline Melodies I: Undying Strains
[PRESENT] Greased Lightning (Not The Song)
RECOMMENDED SONG ACCOMPANIMENT: "Cross The Line" by Superchick
SONG LINK: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uXbwfHYO5GY
Those Disney movies I watched as a kid with the main character always waking up looking ready to go to prom...they lied. Big time. I am almost startled upon seeing the rat’s nest on my head in the mirror’s reflection. By almost startled, I mean almost screamed. I let out an exasperated groan and run my fingers through it, trying disheartenedly to detangle it and failing miserably. 'If only I had a fork...' I think drily. Because those totally work outside of animation.
After at least five minutes of wrestling with my hair in the men's room whilst praying nobody walks in, I finally have enough success to be satisfactory. Compared to some of the supermodels I saw walking around earlier, I probably look about as attractive as I did yesterday, all covered in gore, but I honestly don't care. In fact, it's probably better that way.
I tie my semi-smoothed hair back into a ponytail and tuck it back underneath my jacket as I did yesterday. Anyone who was looking could probably tell I'm faking short hair, but I doubt anyone will notice just passing me by. And that's really all I need, seeing as I am not even vaguely interested in social interaction. I do a quick rundown of my clothes. Shoes? Check. Pants? Still too long, but check. Shirt? Check.
Speaking of my shirt, the band of cloth wrapped around my chest is starting to get extremely uncomfortable and actually painful. I peek my head out the door to make sure no one is coming before shutting and locking it. I then lift up the back of my shirt and untie the knot, letting out a breath of relief as the pressure disappears. I stare at myself in the mirror for a minute, picking myself over visually. Mirrors were a luxury I'd never had access to growing up, so sometimes I don't even recognize myself on the rare occasions I do have one. I close my eyes and rub the back of my neck, massaging it and trying to relieve some tension. When I open them, I have come to a decision. No more pretending. This society seems safe enough. I may get some extremely strange and awkward backlash, but I might as well get it over with before everyone knows me better.
I run to a cabin I've heard referred to as Aphrodite's, and seeing as everyone is at breakfast, am able to relieve some of the female inhabitants of their stashed clothes in peace and without objection. The extreme fancifulness and girliness of the place makes me wrinkle my nose in disgust. I'd never want to live here.
When I return to the bathroom, I do so with a pair of jeans that actually fits, a basic tanktop, a loose blue button-down blouse, and a very nice jacket. Not that chicken-seed sack stuff my old ones used to be made out of. This stuff was hard to find in that diva mess, as it's sort of androgynous style-wise. Just the way I like it. I keep my hair tucked into the back of my jacket and the jacket zipped up: it is pretty chilly outside right now.
The sky is a pale greyish-white that perfectly matches both my mood and the apparent temperature. I pick up my pace and jog down the trail towards the mess hall, taking note of a few important looking buildings for later.
I open the cafeteria door and am greeted again by a whole plethora of sights, smells, and sounds. I haven’t had a “senses overload” incident in several months, and I really hope this won’t be the end of that lucky streak. I shake my head and keep close to the wall, trying to remain inconspicuous as I go for a tray. At least this time I found where to get the food, as opposed to the bag of dried food I got from Nicole. Back where I was before, that stuff would have cost a fortune, but I saw campers here eating pizza. Pizza and gourmet dishes. God, I’ve not seen that stuff in almost a decade.
I pile food onto the plate, drawing a strange look or two from the winged lioness cafeteria-ladie -- '...wait, what the hell?!' I take a deep breath, decide that overanalyzing will result in a complete meltdown, and stiffly turn to an empty table. Before I get there, though, I see that in the center of it there is engraved a large number, and it is not 11. Looking around, all the tables have numbers. I roll my eyes and head over to the table marked as 11. I’ve never been much of a rule follower, but the last thing I need on my first real day here is to get in trouble with the so far unseen authority. I sit as far as humanly possible from the other cabin members and eat in complete silence. It’s not long before one of them tries to make small talk, to which I give them a death glare that promptly shuts them up.
“Hey, greaser!” someone behind me shouts. I ignore it, assuming he is calling to someone else. But when the call is repeated, I look over my shoulder to see an Ares cabin kid standing there, the biggest, most condescending smirk gracing his sharp features. "Greaser, I'm talkin to ya."
"Not my name." I mutter, turning back to my food irritatedly.
"Oi, I'll call ya what I want, greaser."
It takes me a second to realize he's referencing yesterday's clothing fiasco. I look over my shoulder, my gaze tired and annoyed. "Can I help you?" I ask, trying a hard as I can to keep a patronizing tone out of my voice.
"Hm...I dunno, can ya? I'm looking for the local junkyard. I heard ya lived there and thought I might ask ya for directions." More snickers alert me to the sudden quiet that seems to have fallen over the place. Some of the people appear to be worried, while others seem to be enjoying it.
'This place must get really boring if these imbeciles have nothing better to do than watch an idiot pick a fight.' I turn back to my food without another word, thinking the best way to diffuse the situation would be to ignore it.
I feel a hand grab my concealed hair and start to pull it out from beneath the jacket. "Gods ya really are from a junkyard, aren't ya? I guess people don't throw away scissors any more."
The touch sends a spark of tension down my neck and into my body, and my position instantly goes from slightly slumped to rigidly straight. I can feel my heart rate spike as his hand brushes across the back of my neck.
"C'mon, then, boy. Ya afraid to fight back, greaser?" The boy chuckles, producing a tense bout of laughter from the general room. I have a feeling this guy has a reputation for starting fights. And from Ares cabin at that. How coincidental.
"Stop it, Carson!" Yells a voice from across the room. Nicole. "You don't need to pick a fight with every noob we get!"
"Shut up, Nicky. I'm just havin' some fun." He grins, flicking my left ear with his thumb and forefinger. "A little initiation battle never hurt anyone."
Before I can fully register what is happening, I've reached up with my right hand and grabbed his wrist, gripping it tightly at an unnatural angle as I stand and turn around. His actions of aggression and antagonism have sparked a fury in me I know it is too late to attempt to calm. Keeping my grip on his wrist tight, I put my other hand in the center of his chest and force him up against the wall, irking a poorly stifled grunt of pain and surprise from his lips.
"Greaser. Says. No." With that, I let go of his wrist and turn around, looking for an exit. Before I've even taken three steps towards the door, my feet are knocked out from under me and I land on my side with a short gasp of shock. At least half the mess hall bursts out laughing, but I hardly notice it. I'm too busy pulling myself to my feet and mentally calculating the many painful ways I could humiliate this Carson guy right here and now. The stupid, silly grin on his face just angers me even more. But the thing about me when I'm angry is that I am calm. The angrier I am, the more dangerous I become, because I can think straight. I inhale and exhale deeply a few times, staring Carson down with quiet intimidation. Just as the laughter is starting to die down, he lunges at me, prepared to tackle. He is so ungrounded in his footwork that I easily sidestep and land an elbow on his back, interrupting his flight and throwing him to the floor with a loud thud. The surrounding laughter changes from expectant to disbelieving. I guess most people who show up here don't really know how to fight yet: especially a scrawny, 5'8" "boy" like me. Oh well. Visitor's secret advantage.
Carson immediately gets to his feet, this fight no longer playful in his eyes. If your assigned cabin is based upon your personality, he is certainly befitting of his, as his fiery temper demonstrates. I think he is probably used to beating kids with pure and simple brute strength. An often very flawed tactic, as some of my ex-rivals would attest to.
I only realize how slow my pre-battle analysis process has become when his fist connects with the side of my face. Oh, that feels lovely. It wasn’t an especially hard hit: at least, not compared to some of the other ones I’ve taken. But it has been awhile since I've taken one, and I end up a little bit more off balance than I was expecting. I don't think he legitimately wants to hurt me: if he did, he'd be trying a lot harder. No, he wants to humiliate me.
I straighten myself, feeling a small bit of blood trickling from my nose. So, he's drawn blood. I guess it's time to play offense, now. I begin to make my mid-battle analysis, and come to the conclusion that this Carson guy has experience in more formal street fighting styles and most of the basics of a fight down. He is plenty strong, but he doesn't appear to know some of the more complicated or "dirty” tricks, and his technique has a million holes: it is those I need to take advantage of. I’d guess he hasn’t been fighting for very long. Probably not much more a camp senior than I am.
Luckily, I manage to think all this much more quickly than last time, and manage to dodge a fairly well executed punch. I get into a position where I am facing him sideways, preparing for his next punch. I have got to hurry and end this fight, as I can see a few kids from the far side of the room coming to end it themselves. While it’d be nice to have it over with, I would prefer to put him in his place myself. Not the greatest of motives, but that’s not exactly my main focus right now.
As his next punch comes towards me, I catch it under my arm and lock it there, rendering it temporarily immobile. With one hand I grab his hand and pinch down hard on the flesh between his thumb and forefinger, doing a similar thing with my other hand on the bundle of muscles in the crook of his elbow. He cries out in startled pain, and, while keeping my grip on his arm, throw him into the food bar. I swear, the laughter that ensued thereafter was beyond any I’d heard in my life. It forced a smug grin onto even my face.
Carson looks furious, but it only adds to the hilarity with the way he is coated and caked in food. Before he can regain either his footing or his composure, I walk over to him, put one hand in the middle of his chest to keep him from getting up, and smile sweetly. “Got your ass whipped by a girl, did ya now, greaser?” With that, I take off my jacket, ball it up, toss it in his face, and stride for the exit. I don’t look back to see the amused and amazed expressions on the faces of the other campers at the realization I am not in fact a boy, as I had thus far led them to believe. However, I do look back when I hear a loud, collective gasp. When I see that their gazes are directed towards a point just above my head…
‘A...lightning bolt?’
SONG LINK: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uXbwfHYO5GY
Those Disney movies I watched as a kid with the main character always waking up looking ready to go to prom...they lied. Big time. I am almost startled upon seeing the rat’s nest on my head in the mirror’s reflection. By almost startled, I mean almost screamed. I let out an exasperated groan and run my fingers through it, trying disheartenedly to detangle it and failing miserably. 'If only I had a fork...' I think drily. Because those totally work outside of animation.
After at least five minutes of wrestling with my hair in the men's room whilst praying nobody walks in, I finally have enough success to be satisfactory. Compared to some of the supermodels I saw walking around earlier, I probably look about as attractive as I did yesterday, all covered in gore, but I honestly don't care. In fact, it's probably better that way.
I tie my semi-smoothed hair back into a ponytail and tuck it back underneath my jacket as I did yesterday. Anyone who was looking could probably tell I'm faking short hair, but I doubt anyone will notice just passing me by. And that's really all I need, seeing as I am not even vaguely interested in social interaction. I do a quick rundown of my clothes. Shoes? Check. Pants? Still too long, but check. Shirt? Check.
Speaking of my shirt, the band of cloth wrapped around my chest is starting to get extremely uncomfortable and actually painful. I peek my head out the door to make sure no one is coming before shutting and locking it. I then lift up the back of my shirt and untie the knot, letting out a breath of relief as the pressure disappears. I stare at myself in the mirror for a minute, picking myself over visually. Mirrors were a luxury I'd never had access to growing up, so sometimes I don't even recognize myself on the rare occasions I do have one. I close my eyes and rub the back of my neck, massaging it and trying to relieve some tension. When I open them, I have come to a decision. No more pretending. This society seems safe enough. I may get some extremely strange and awkward backlash, but I might as well get it over with before everyone knows me better.
I run to a cabin I've heard referred to as Aphrodite's, and seeing as everyone is at breakfast, am able to relieve some of the female inhabitants of their stashed clothes in peace and without objection. The extreme fancifulness and girliness of the place makes me wrinkle my nose in disgust. I'd never want to live here.
When I return to the bathroom, I do so with a pair of jeans that actually fits, a basic tanktop, a loose blue button-down blouse, and a very nice jacket. Not that chicken-seed sack stuff my old ones used to be made out of. This stuff was hard to find in that diva mess, as it's sort of androgynous style-wise. Just the way I like it. I keep my hair tucked into the back of my jacket and the jacket zipped up: it is pretty chilly outside right now.
The sky is a pale greyish-white that perfectly matches both my mood and the apparent temperature. I pick up my pace and jog down the trail towards the mess hall, taking note of a few important looking buildings for later.
I open the cafeteria door and am greeted again by a whole plethora of sights, smells, and sounds. I haven’t had a “senses overload” incident in several months, and I really hope this won’t be the end of that lucky streak. I shake my head and keep close to the wall, trying to remain inconspicuous as I go for a tray. At least this time I found where to get the food, as opposed to the bag of dried food I got from Nicole. Back where I was before, that stuff would have cost a fortune, but I saw campers here eating pizza. Pizza and gourmet dishes. God, I’ve not seen that stuff in almost a decade.
I pile food onto the plate, drawing a strange look or two from the winged lioness cafeteria-ladie -- '...wait, what the hell?!' I take a deep breath, decide that overanalyzing will result in a complete meltdown, and stiffly turn to an empty table. Before I get there, though, I see that in the center of it there is engraved a large number, and it is not 11. Looking around, all the tables have numbers. I roll my eyes and head over to the table marked as 11. I’ve never been much of a rule follower, but the last thing I need on my first real day here is to get in trouble with the so far unseen authority. I sit as far as humanly possible from the other cabin members and eat in complete silence. It’s not long before one of them tries to make small talk, to which I give them a death glare that promptly shuts them up.
“Hey, greaser!” someone behind me shouts. I ignore it, assuming he is calling to someone else. But when the call is repeated, I look over my shoulder to see an Ares cabin kid standing there, the biggest, most condescending smirk gracing his sharp features. "Greaser, I'm talkin to ya."
"Not my name." I mutter, turning back to my food irritatedly.
"Oi, I'll call ya what I want, greaser."
It takes me a second to realize he's referencing yesterday's clothing fiasco. I look over my shoulder, my gaze tired and annoyed. "Can I help you?" I ask, trying a hard as I can to keep a patronizing tone out of my voice.
"Hm...I dunno, can ya? I'm looking for the local junkyard. I heard ya lived there and thought I might ask ya for directions." More snickers alert me to the sudden quiet that seems to have fallen over the place. Some of the people appear to be worried, while others seem to be enjoying it.
'This place must get really boring if these imbeciles have nothing better to do than watch an idiot pick a fight.' I turn back to my food without another word, thinking the best way to diffuse the situation would be to ignore it.
I feel a hand grab my concealed hair and start to pull it out from beneath the jacket. "Gods ya really are from a junkyard, aren't ya? I guess people don't throw away scissors any more."
The touch sends a spark of tension down my neck and into my body, and my position instantly goes from slightly slumped to rigidly straight. I can feel my heart rate spike as his hand brushes across the back of my neck.
"C'mon, then, boy. Ya afraid to fight back, greaser?" The boy chuckles, producing a tense bout of laughter from the general room. I have a feeling this guy has a reputation for starting fights. And from Ares cabin at that. How coincidental.
"Stop it, Carson!" Yells a voice from across the room. Nicole. "You don't need to pick a fight with every noob we get!"
"Shut up, Nicky. I'm just havin' some fun." He grins, flicking my left ear with his thumb and forefinger. "A little initiation battle never hurt anyone."
Before I can fully register what is happening, I've reached up with my right hand and grabbed his wrist, gripping it tightly at an unnatural angle as I stand and turn around. His actions of aggression and antagonism have sparked a fury in me I know it is too late to attempt to calm. Keeping my grip on his wrist tight, I put my other hand in the center of his chest and force him up against the wall, irking a poorly stifled grunt of pain and surprise from his lips.
"Greaser. Says. No." With that, I let go of his wrist and turn around, looking for an exit. Before I've even taken three steps towards the door, my feet are knocked out from under me and I land on my side with a short gasp of shock. At least half the mess hall bursts out laughing, but I hardly notice it. I'm too busy pulling myself to my feet and mentally calculating the many painful ways I could humiliate this Carson guy right here and now. The stupid, silly grin on his face just angers me even more. But the thing about me when I'm angry is that I am calm. The angrier I am, the more dangerous I become, because I can think straight. I inhale and exhale deeply a few times, staring Carson down with quiet intimidation. Just as the laughter is starting to die down, he lunges at me, prepared to tackle. He is so ungrounded in his footwork that I easily sidestep and land an elbow on his back, interrupting his flight and throwing him to the floor with a loud thud. The surrounding laughter changes from expectant to disbelieving. I guess most people who show up here don't really know how to fight yet: especially a scrawny, 5'8" "boy" like me. Oh well. Visitor's secret advantage.
Carson immediately gets to his feet, this fight no longer playful in his eyes. If your assigned cabin is based upon your personality, he is certainly befitting of his, as his fiery temper demonstrates. I think he is probably used to beating kids with pure and simple brute strength. An often very flawed tactic, as some of my ex-rivals would attest to.
I only realize how slow my pre-battle analysis process has become when his fist connects with the side of my face. Oh, that feels lovely. It wasn’t an especially hard hit: at least, not compared to some of the other ones I’ve taken. But it has been awhile since I've taken one, and I end up a little bit more off balance than I was expecting. I don't think he legitimately wants to hurt me: if he did, he'd be trying a lot harder. No, he wants to humiliate me.
I straighten myself, feeling a small bit of blood trickling from my nose. So, he's drawn blood. I guess it's time to play offense, now. I begin to make my mid-battle analysis, and come to the conclusion that this Carson guy has experience in more formal street fighting styles and most of the basics of a fight down. He is plenty strong, but he doesn't appear to know some of the more complicated or "dirty” tricks, and his technique has a million holes: it is those I need to take advantage of. I’d guess he hasn’t been fighting for very long. Probably not much more a camp senior than I am.
Luckily, I manage to think all this much more quickly than last time, and manage to dodge a fairly well executed punch. I get into a position where I am facing him sideways, preparing for his next punch. I have got to hurry and end this fight, as I can see a few kids from the far side of the room coming to end it themselves. While it’d be nice to have it over with, I would prefer to put him in his place myself. Not the greatest of motives, but that’s not exactly my main focus right now.
As his next punch comes towards me, I catch it under my arm and lock it there, rendering it temporarily immobile. With one hand I grab his hand and pinch down hard on the flesh between his thumb and forefinger, doing a similar thing with my other hand on the bundle of muscles in the crook of his elbow. He cries out in startled pain, and, while keeping my grip on his arm, throw him into the food bar. I swear, the laughter that ensued thereafter was beyond any I’d heard in my life. It forced a smug grin onto even my face.Carson looks furious, but it only adds to the hilarity with the way he is coated and caked in food. Before he can regain either his footing or his composure, I walk over to him, put one hand in the middle of his chest to keep him from getting up, and smile sweetly. “Got your ass whipped by a girl, did ya now, greaser?” With that, I take off my jacket, ball it up, toss it in his face, and stride for the exit. I don’t look back to see the amused and amazed expressions on the faces of the other campers at the realization I am not in fact a boy, as I had thus far led them to believe. However, I do look back when I hear a loud, collective gasp. When I see that their gazes are directed towards a point just above my head…
‘A...lightning bolt?’
Notes
GODS GUYS. My inspiration fell flat on its face as of Christmas day, so I apologize for the long wait. I started to feel it come back about a week ago, and jumped on this right away in case it might disappear again. Therefore, I KNOW THIS CHAPTER IS THE MOST DUMB CLICHE THING EVER BUT IT IS JUST A FILLER. I WILL REWRITE HOW THIS ALL HAPPENS ANOTHER TIME, I JUST WANTED TO MOVE ON WITH THE STORY.I will have you know that I haven't been idle. Despite the fact my presentation zone was offline, I continued to develop the story itself. It gets more complicated every day, and I'm having so much fun with this (even though we're only just now getting into it. Almost 20,000 words so far! YAY. -Longest story I've ever written.-
Also, I changed the rating to R because some of the things I plan to put in it are borderline and I always say better safe than sorry. Better to rate it too high than too low.
ANYWAYS. This song to me feel just perfect for this scene. I haven't read many other PJO FFs, so I have no clue if this kind of scene is cliche or not, but I hope that the presentation will make it my own, at the very least.
SO MANY UPDATES. The location was moved from Bangladesh to India, so there's that language and culture change. Characters were added, medical conditions researched and corrected (now this seems to be almost a psychological thriller), and I've been making edits by the dozen. Adding pics, finding GIFs, making it as real for me as possible, so hopefully I can convey that to you guys! Also, I started putting references in the Notes of some of the chapters, because I know that "unrealistic events" can turn people off, so I used researched references to prove that the kinds of things I am describing actually (sadly) do happen in real life. I have a pet peeve for realism, so yep...me going overboard.
My daily research:
So, if you liked this, or have suggestions or speculation or ANYTHING, please comment! I like it when people comment. I like it even more when they actually engage in conversation about it! So thanks guys! Hopefully updates will be more frequent now -as long as my creativity stays for a while...-
We've missed you!!
1/19/16