Chapter Text
Gunner Foxe
I almost punched Clarisse when she called me out for running into battle. She can't tell me to not go take down some moving hunk of metal when she did the exact same thing. Her level of hypocrisy is so insane sometimes.
Who tells a born warrior to stand on the sidelines?
The heck, no. If I want to hit something and get glory to hell with her concern. It's not like she regards mine when I try to stop her.
But, my ankle seriously does hurt. It's like needles are being jammed into me over and over again before I can even recover, and I'm sick of it.
Yew is treating the others. Their injuries are swrious, something a quick drink of nectar can't fix. Too much of that and demigods would start conbusting, so has to use his personal skills. It's a good thing he's quite the professional. I drank nectar a few while ago—it has a sickening sweet taste of a drink too gone from my memory—but he won't let me leave the medical wing until I can stand without wincing.
He gave me a whole lecture about slamming my foot, which has very, very fragile parts into metal with full force, but unfortunately for him, I don't regret a thing. It was exhilarating, phenomenal and even if it didn't kill it completely, I felt on top of the world. t's unfortunate that I don't regret kicking the bull. It was exhilarating, even if the moment fell short. Oh, and it's not like I wanted Jackson to die. Even with the bad blood.
In fact, there isn't much I know about him so hating seems unnecessary. Everyone is pretty chill with him—Ares cabin excluded because we're just built different. Clarisse's words, not mine.
It's a bit hard to stomach when Stoll brothers praise him and Jackson's friendship with Chase makes him questionable, but even Silena has good things to say about him. And she's a good judge of character, if her friendship with Clarisse says anything.
Personally, it's the whole Big Three kid that has me wary of him. Don't get me wrong, I love drama especially when it leads to huge fights, but something about him screams abnormally dangerous. Like he could cause a war or the death of millions by just breathing.
Take the bulls, for example. I almost can't believe their timing.
One week, that pine tree has been sick and dying, and yet no monsters attacked. But suddenly, just a few minutes before Jackson arrives, a pair of bulls decide to be happy-go-lucky and run rampant. Coincidence? I think not. Especially when freakings gods are real and fate is three old grannies with a twisted sense of entertainment.
It's funny because I didn't realize he was that son of Poseidon until I heard his name. He looked like any other regular demigods. Scared, lost, pissed off yet determined to survive. We just have one of those faces.
I kind of do have respect, though. He was the guy who threw toilet water on Clarisse, from what the rumours say. It was sad to know I missed that.
"Gunner, I think your leg should be good now."
I blink a few times and look up at Yew. His hair is ruffled, and there are bags under his eyes. Injuries have been more common since Tantalus arrived so he must he working a lot more. You'd almost not believe he's a teenager.
"Yeah," I mutter and move to stand from the sheeted bed. I test my ankle by walking from one bed to the next, then again. "It's better."
Yew raises an eyebrow. "Really? And don't lie, I see through those."
"It still hurts, but it is better. Believe me, I'm not an idiot. I won't strain it."
He nods, sighing. "Yeah, yeah. Okay. Most of the time I wouldn't question it, since drink a sure fix but—"
"I'm different?" I finish, try to control the urge to scowl. "You don't have to throw it in my face."
"But it's true! Like, sure, you heal faster than the average human, but you don't exactly heal like a demigod either. Your healing is the slowest I've seen from any demigod."
"It's nice to now I'm special like that, Yew," I deadpan.
"I'm serious. Also, call me Michael."
"Look, everyone's body is different and some things aren't going to be the same. My healing is just one of those things. I mean, you do know that right, doc?"
Yew flushes a bit at being called that. "I do, better than anyone. It's just—I worry. My patients are important to me and the amount of times you've been in here. . . I can't not worry, Gunner."
And, shit, his face is serious and I don't how to deal with that.
"I'm fine," I say, but it's not very convincing.
"You weren't when you came back," Yew whispers. "You haven't been since."
I wince. "Shut up, Yew. That's not your business. Fuck you, I told to stop asking. Did La Rue set you up to this?"
His eyes widen and he shakes his had rapidly. "No, no. She was even against it, but I don't care. You're literally been getting hurt for no absolute reason."
I grit my teeth, staring at my feet. "Stop."
"And apparently, scars magically appear on your arms and legs, what's up with that?"
"Stop."
But Yew is on a ramble. He doesn't zip his mouth, words flying out.
"I know for a fact no one is hurting you and your body is tough enough that you don'tget those scars from combat training, so how? You know what, I think it has to do with ehere you went last summer."
"Enough, Yew. Please."
"I want to help, Gunner! Why won't you let me?"
"I don't need it."
"Gunner—"
"Quit it!" I snap, standing up so abruptly that he backs away with quick speed, hands out in a defensive form. I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. "Stop worrying about me, damn it. You've done your job, my leg is fine and others need you so just quit it."
He's silent for a while, staring back at my defiant eyes with a sad glint I don't want to acknowledge. Seconds later, he just nods. "Okay, I won't push. But either you be careful or you tell me the truth in your own time"
I huff, turning around so that he doesn't notice the tiniest shake in my voice and my slightly heavier breathing. "I'll be extra careful, don't you worry."
Behind him, there's a humorless chuckle. "You do that."
I wave him off and make my escape at the exit door. "See ya, Yew."
"It's Michael!"
"Sure, Yew!"
"Asshole," he mutters.
I pretend like I don't hear him.
--
"Did you have Yew ask me questions again?"
"Get‐-your--hands--off!"
Clarisse's face is contorted in rage, her mouth gasping for air as her hands try to claw my forearms away. I caught her off guard. It's the only way I was able to push her against the wall to hold ger down.
I shove her harder, keeping her in place. "Answer me."
The rest of our cabin is quiet. They don't intervene. It's the way we operate. If there's a fight, let the participants deal with it however they see fit as long as no one kills anyone.
"I--don't know--what you're talking about, Foxe," Clarisse gasps, glaring at me with a fiery that screams death. I know she'll have my neck for this later, but right now, I honestly don't care.
I chuckle darkly. "You don't, huh? Funny, I remember you doing that when I came back to camp because you're too much of a coward to ask yourself!"
"I did ask, asshole! You didn't answer."
"Maybe I didn't want to."
"And you still don't, so I won't force you to. It's not any of my business, anyway. Right?"
I glare at her. She glares right back. We have the stand off for a while.
"I swear if were snooping in my business again—" I whisper harshly.
"Oh, shut it, you pest," Clarisse fires at me. "I'm rude, not a total asshole that doesn't repesct boundaries."
Why does she have to sound so earnest while having the tone so furious she may as well heat her food with her hot temper? I take a deep breath and loosen my grip.
I shouldn't have.
She shoves me, hard and we both collapse to the ground. Her hands raises in a fist. My hands are already flying my face when the fist pauses, shaking. Clarisse lets out a large sigh and pushes off me, kicking me lightly in the stomach.
"Stupid, don't do that again," she mutters and points to one of our siblings. "You, come with me. The rest of you, make your way to dinner without me. I'll be there soon."
The others call out agreements while Clarisse and Lea duck out the cabin, the door slamming shut.
"You good, Gunner?"
I glance up at the hand extended out to me and take it.
James pulls me up and I shrug. "Fine."
He looks doubtful, but gives me a tight nod. "Right."
And I can't stand that. He's the same way. They all are. With their patronizing stares and unasked questions that seem to trying to strip my privacy. It claws at my skin and makes it clammy and hard to breathe and I can't, I can't, I can't. Shit, I—
"I'm going out," I blurt and dart out the cabin. Since running is not an option with my ankle, I speed walk my way to the empty training fields.
At this time, close to dinner in the evening, everyone is in their cabins being lazy or off to the forests.
The training fields are somewhat soothing. And because it's weird to answer why, I like to think about effect than the reason. It just is.
I collapse on the ground, not concerned about getting my clothes and hair dirty. A bath will be an easy fix and right now I just need to lay down and relax.
Just so I don't think about it. About last summer.
My eyes blur and I blink. Still, it's gets blurrier, a burning, boiling liquid seeming to seep out of them, rolling down my cheeks in big blobs.
I ignore it. I ignore it and just stare at the sky, trying to stop that ache that chains my heart. Curling into a ball, I ignore the tears and the past, trying and trying and failing.
"Be my slave, little one. Bleed for me."
Gods, I hate failing.