A/N

New story. I was challenged, and I had nothing to do. This is the brain child of spite and boredom. I have no idea how long this will last, nor how far it will go. Thou shalt hath no expectations, else thou shall fall to disappointment and impotency.

Const3llations is the guy that basically said, "You won't" when I brought up this idea. Proving that bastard wrong now.
Seriously though, go read his stuff, he can write a damn good romance.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I wrote this, but I claim none of it. Please get Rick to make it canon.

Harvey Wallbanger was drunk again.

Some might say that's a tad out of character for a twelve year-old, but Harvey aimed to impress. He had taken his first ever sip of alcohol five years prior, and was convinced that the stuff loved him. No, you read that right. His own feelings towards the substance were pretty neutral, all things considered, but the universe seemed to conspire towards his inebriation. Sure, he was rather used to it at this point; keeping most of his mental facilities, but the world liked to sway a bit more than it otherwise would have, and he never did make the best decisions while under the influence.

He looked up, flinching at the bright light that glared into his eyes off the nearest building's windows.

It was a Tuesday morning, because of course it was, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky, yet Harvey found himself scowling at a small rainbow - courtesy of the homeless man peeing on the wall in front of him.

"So I's tell him, 'you've got'ch you'self a whole fuckin' tent,' and and get this," his hand left his pants, dropping them fully to the floor, so he could point at Harvey, "a goddamn spaceman sleppin'bag. Like if yer gonna be rich in this fuckin' city, you've gotta be pepperd to get stabbed or somfin. Swear."

"Hm." Harvey looked down at the bottle in his hand and gave it a swirl. "So you got'ch yourself a new tent, then?"

"HA! Hell no! That shit'll get a-hick-anyone stabbed." The stream wiggled as he tried to stay upright. "I grabbed 'is boots."

Harvey downed the rest of the bottle. The man gave it to him to hold while he took a leak, but he needed to get paid somehow for sitting through this nightmare.

"Good pair of boots'll last ya. Good choice."

"Boots're shit. Wish I got the tent."

"Hm." Harvey's left eye twitched.

"You're a good kid… kid." The man made an exaggerated jiggle, and a fumble for his pants, making the rainbow disappear.

"Thanks. So, I got you your drinks. You gonna give me that name yet?"

The man sighed dramatically, and made a motion for his bottle, which Harvey gave back - miraculously full of liquor again.

"Yeah, yeah. I heard o' her. A real piece o' work, thinkin' herself a witch or somfin. She hangs out in an aband'nd subway tun'el. Calls 'erself Delilah." He took a swig and pointed the way with his bottle, and explained a few twists and turns.

Harvey nodded, accepted the directions and stumbled away, leaving the man to probably pass out and get his boots stolen.

The lone boy on the street should probably have garnered a bit more attention than it did, but this was New York. If you weren't minding your damn business, you were a tourist, and nobody had time for whatever the hell a tourist was complaining about.

Harvey had grown up on the streets, having been a dumpster baby raised by a crazy old lady and her pack of stray cats. Victoria, the old white tabby, was the one that fed him growing up. She'd steal little bits of food for him while Buttercup, Mr. Fluffernutter, Greg, and Lord Amadeus-The-Black somehow procured the other essentials. There was also a lot of fruit in their little hideout. Something about the soil and light hit just right down through the cracks of the arched tunnels in one of the abandoned tracks. Melons, strawberries, and grapes grew aplenty, meaning he was never really wanting for much.

And the cats kept the rats away - or, well, caught them en-masse; using the hidden fruit grove as a trap for the hungry scavengers.

It was quite the comfortable life for a dumpster baby. He had fashioned himself a bed out of the fruit vines; weaving them through each other, and stuffing them with leaves to make mattresses for himself and the old lady - who, by the way, never said a word to him until the day she died.

The cats ate her, by the way.

It was hard to snuggle up with Mr. Fluffernutter at night when he'd witnessed the cat eat an entire person's arm. He eventually got over it, but he still had nightmares.

He shuddered at the memory, getting a look at himself in the window of a nearby building. Harvey was a little small for his age; able to lay full out on a park bench and not hang over the side. He wore an oversized winter jacket over a wine-stained pink T-shirt, and slightly worn out jeans. His hair was a self-cut, uneven, curly mess, and his brown eyes sparkled with something that was unnerving to look at, even through his own reflection.

Shaking his head and pulling his eyes from the window, he turned towards a familiar unmarked door on the side of a brick building. Reaching up to open it, he was met with a set of stairs leading down into a laundromat where a woman in her early twenties stared across the room in disgust at a fat man wearing nothing but a stained wife-beater and boxers, both waiting on their machines to finish.

Harvey walked past the two into a hallway in the back, leading towards an out of order, double-stacked machine. Pulling the latch on the bottom washer, he felt the whole front give way, revealing a door that led further inwards.

Speakeasies were everywhere in New York, but most of them were well-known locations, or relatively recent in construction, and broadcasted their location with websites and such. This was not one of those. An old family business kept alive by the odd old-timer that remembered the prohibition. Of course that generation was basically dead, but those old men brought in and introduced their sons to their drinking buddies, keeping the location alive within families. However that wasn't ever going to be enough to keep a full business going.

The nature of a speakeasy meant the need to smuggle alcohol back in the day. So for a place like this to exist, some tunnels were built - mostly in connection to abandoned parts of the subway lines and sewers.

Perhaps the biggest customers of the oldest, networked speakeasies were the homeless, the dredges of society that lived where no sane, civilized person would dare to tread.

The bartender ignored Harvey, idly wiping away at glass with a rag, as the boy walked over to a small wooden panel in the corner of the room. The twelve year-old pressed on a hidden latch behind a cabinet, and watched as the panel swung open. Saluting the bartender, Harvey slunk down the now revealed tunnel, closing the panel behind him.

The tunnel led to the sewers, unfortunately. It was always a tossup between the subway and the sewers. One could only hope that they didn't smell like actual shit after making their way to the underground. More likely than not, though, the stench was inevitable.

It took him another twenty minutes, following the directions given by the previous homeless man, but it was safe to say he found what he was looking for. At least if the trapped goat-man was any indication.

Vines had basically crucified the creature to the wall, splaying his arms and legs on the stone.

Harvey looked at the goat-man. The goat-man looked back at Harvey. Harvey removed a flask from his jacket pocket and squinted at it, as if blaming it for all his problems. He then opened it and took a swig, the world returning back to its familiar, slightly vibratory state as he did so.

"So." He began slowly. "How's it hangin?"

"Uh, hey kid. Mind uh… helping me down?"

Harvey hummed, nursing his flask. "You have hooves"

The goat-man blinked and looked down at said hooves, then peered back at the boy in front of him. "Let me smell you really quick."

"What the fuck?"

"I mean, let me down so I can smell you."

"Whoever trapped you here clearly did the world a favor."

The goat-man looked offended. "We're in a sewer for Hades' sake! I can't smell anything but shit in here! How am I supposed to smell you if you're that far away?!"

Harvey blinked. "I have a lot of questions, and I don't think I want the answers to any of them."

"You can see my hooves!" The goat-man exclaimed, as if that explained anything. "Normal mortals can't see my hooves."

Harvey sighed. "Okay, creepy goat-man. I came here looking for a witch. I assume she's that way?" He pointed down the passage the goat-man was tied up in.

"No no no no!" He all but pleaded. "Don't go that way! She'll eat you!"

Harvey paused and downed his flask. It would fill up again in a moment anyway, and he needed the alcohol for this shit. Drink and forget the nightmare, flesh-eating cats. Drink and forget.

"Why would she do that?" He asked as his world began to fuzz nicely.

"Student of Circe." The goat-man explained with a nod. "They tend to hate all men, turning them into animals, and eating them."

"Is that why you're half goat?"

"Huh?" the goat-man looked down again at his hooves. "Oh, no. I was born like this."

Harvey nodded. "So which of your parents was a goat?"

"Excuse you! My mother was a wood nymph, and my father was a satyr! In no way am I related to a goat!" The goat-man seemed offended again. It was kind of funny getting him riled up.

"See now, that's just bullshit. You're obviously half goat."

"I'm a Satyr!"

"Bless you."

"I didn't sneeze, you little shit!"

Harvey took another sip - from his now full flask, with a smile. "So how'd you end up on the wall?"

The goat-man tried fixing his posture, regardless of his restraints. "Well, I was looking for demigods. The abandoned subway system has had a faint scent of one for a few years now, and a lot of us have been trying to find it."

"Okay?"

The goat-man nodded. "This particular area smelled the most of magic-"

"You can smell magic?"

"I'm a satyr. Duh." The look on his face fully echoed that 'Duh.' "Anyway, I ran into that witch in there instead of a new demigod. She trapped me here."

"Okay, but why?"

"To eat me later."

"What?"

"What?"

"...Nevermind." He took another drink. "So why are you looking for demigods? Also, what's a demigod?"

The goat-man nodded. "Half human, half god. Basically regular people that have powers and are chased by monsters and stuff."

"Huh." He paused, before finishing his flask again. "Neat."

"I know, right? Anyway, it's my job to make sure demigods make it to a safe place so they don't like, you know, die. 'Cuz of like, monsters and stuff."

Harvey rubbed a hand through his hair. "So you're not going to try and eat me?"

The goat-man recoiled. "Ew! No way in Hades! You'd taste terrible."

"Is it the dirt?" The twelve year-old patted down his jacket, knocking some dust and grime off. "I don't get to take many showers."

The goat-man nodded. "Definitely doesn't help your case, that's for sure."

"Unfortunate."

"Could just be that we're in a sewer. Everything just smells like feces, and it's killing my appetite."

"So if you left the sewer, would you eat me?"

The goat-man hummed. "Likely not. You're not made of aluminum, are you?"

"Don't think so."

"Dang, that would have been nice."

"For sure."

A strangely comfortable silence stretched between the two for a mome-

"So will you get me down so I can smell you, yet?"

"You're not going to drop that, are you?"

"Well, no. You can see my hooves."

"And that means I'm not normal, then?"

"Absolutely."

Harvey took another large gulp from his flask, before putting it away. "Well alrighty then." His hand waved over the vines, watching them recede from the wall, loosening the goat-man from his restraints and making him fall to the floor in surprise.

"Ha! I knew it!" The goat-man yelled, springing to his fee- hooves? Hooves.

"Knew what?" Harvey asked.

"You're a demigod!"

"Well I mean, probably. I was looking for the witch to see if she had any answers about that." He shrugged.

The goat-man grabbed Harvey's arm excitedly. "Well, I'm glad I talked to you first then! Let's get you to camp!"

"Camp?"

As per usual, nobody gave a second glance as a man with hooves and hairy legs dragged a twelve year-old homeless boy down the street. Nor did the taxi driver blink when said homeless boy paid for a ride upfront before the goat-man told the driver the location of some strawberry farm off on Long Island.

The goat-man; however, did blink at the money.

"Woah, that's a lota dough."

"Hm."

"You're homeless, right?"

"Uh huh."

"Pickpocket?"

"Nah."

"Then what?"

"I've gotta keep some secrets, don't I?"

"Fair enough."

The goat-man and Harvey sat in silence for a moment. Harvey watched the city blocks melt away as they drove through a tunnel. The overhead lights flashing one by one through his vision, and the other cars speeding along in the relatively light traffic. None so much as caring that they were currently underwater. He took a large sip from his flask.

"So," goat-man started, "what's your name, anyway?"

"Call me Lord Amadeus-The-Black."

"I'm not calling you that."

"Why? What do you have against it?"

"It's stupid."

Harvey's eye twitched. "It's my cat's name, and it's awesome. Go fuck yourself." He took another swig with a pout.

It was a couple hours later when they pulled up to the bottom of the hill leading to the strawberry farm. As the two left the car, Harvey pulled out three one-hundred dollar bills and handed them over to the driver. Then, with a nod and a tip of his flask, the driver was off back towards Manhattan.

It was late afternoon, and the goat-man had been getting more and more nervous the entire drive, culminating in his current frantic state.

"Come on, we've gotta get past the tree, or we're probably going to die."

"You really don't know how to make any sense, do you?"

The goat-man looked back at his charge. "The way back has been way too easy. Some bullshit's definitely going to happen before we get to safety."

Harvey looked into the trees ahead of them, putting his flask away. "What, like getting attacked by monsters?"

"That's the general 'bad thing' that tends to happen, yes."

"And what do these monsters tend to look like?" Harvey started clenching and unclenching his fist as they made their way to the tree line.

"Could be anything, really. Hellhounds, Cyclops, even a Manticore. Shit's scary, man."

"And what are Hellhounds, exactly? Big black dogs, maybe?"

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

The twelve year-old pointed further into the tree line. "'Cuz there's like thirty of them over there."

"Oh. Well shit. I totally called that."

A/N

So this is a thing now. Probably going to keep the chapters short.

Go to the discord server below. Lots of great authors that like to bounce ideas around. It's fun.

discord . gg/wGQPuvKbFT