Summery- Nothing was the same after my dad had died. Strange bird-ladies attacked me, I come to find out I have a sister, my dad isn't really my dad and my real dad is a murderer intent on capturing these ultra, super-powrful demon-things. Did I mention that I'm not supposed to be living? Or the fact that I'm supposed to stop my dad's orginization from capturing all of these demons and my dad is being controlled by a dark force that has been brewing for years? I didn't think so.

Disclaimer- I own absolutely, positively NONE of Percy Jackson and the Olympians or Naruto. If you think I own it, get your butt to a mental hospital.

A/N- This is my first fan fiction that I actually know that I am going to finish. The dates at the beginning of each chapter are the dates that I finished that chapter. I'll respond to any questions that you have for any chapter on the next chapter. Enjoy J. Please tell me any mistakes!

June 24, 2009

Chapter One: How to Save a Life

I'm not your normal, everyday boy. I'm actually quite unique. For one thing, I live-lived-in the alleyways of New York City. Before that I lived in California.

Yeah. California. The state on the other side of the country (America). It was a tough life for a whole three days as a ten-year-old. Yup. I'm only ten, and I'm writing this long essay for whoever wants to listen, or read, for that manner. Not that anybody would read this, I mean. It looks fake to you, but it is very, very true. That's why I'm telling you now, and later in this adventure again, maybe, to stop reading if any of this seems true about you. If you have both dyslexia and ADHD, stop reading. From there, just match your life to mine.

I grew up without a mom. The only thing I remember of her was black hair tied in a large bun above her head along with a big smile. A deer, I think, then carried me away to somewhere. From there, I lived with my father. Peculiar things started to happen as I grew older, but nothing that I would have noticed. Strange men in trench coats would sometimes come up to me on the playground with miss-matched eyes. The teachers would then blaze through the crowds of children to get to me as I talked to the men. If they wouldn't go away immediately, that teacher would threaten to call the cops. That's when they would stick up a very inappropriate finger and the teacher would end up calling the cops, anyway.

Then my dad would tell me stories about my mom. I forgot them all now, but they were quite important. And the more my dad would tell me these stories, more strange things started to happen. For instance, these strange dogs started to appear at the front door. They were huge with black fur and glowing red eyes that seemed to pierce through your soul. Some would speak and say, "We want the boy," while others would only grow and bark.

When I told my friends, they only laughed at me for being so foolish, and some would hang their head in shame for me lying. Even so, they continued to come, and whenever my dad and I wanted to go somewhere, we would grab a stuffed eagle which he put on my shoulder. It then transformed into a bow and quiver that I had subsequently named Eagle. Even so, he most often referred to it as Aetos. I also told my friends about this. None of them believed me, and said that they would not believe unless they see.

My teachers say that I am "gifted with intelligence" even though I had dyslexia and ADHD. I would take that as a compliment, but teachers say that to every student. Well, almost every student, anyway. Maybe not the smarter ones, since they already know. Still, if I were smart like, oh say, Keith Winters, I would like to have a compliment here and there.

So anyway, back to the dogs. I had always been decent with Aetos. My dad would slash and hack with his dad's World War II sword while I sat on a shelf and shot arrows. The beasts-my dad had named Hellhounds-would turn into a pile of golden dust time and time again. Sometimes the arrows that flew from my bow would turn a type of blue. It would glow and shine, blazing through the air and making its mark on the Hellhounds' heads.

As time progressed, my dad got sick and tired of fighting. Every now and again, he would get scratched or bitten by one of the hounds. He got lazier with fighting them, and left the bulk to me. And when an eagle or deer came by to join the Hellhounds, my dad would sigh and just walk away, leaving everything for me. The strangest thing of all was that the eagles and deer would all turn into dust just as the Hellhounds would. I had always thought that animals were flesh, bone, and blood. Not golden dust.

After a little bit of time, my dad came upon unbearable pain. He screamed in agony and anguish, and the only thing I could do was to call 911. I watched helplessly as the paramedics carried my dad away in the ambulance. I followed, praying to anyone that would listen. With me being Agnostic, I had no idea who I should believe.

"Kid," the paramedic said in a calm voice as he hooked up strange things to my dad, "it's going to be okay."

I could see the fear in his eyes-the regret that he had just lied to me. I couldn't believe that someone who is supposed to save lives is afraid. The people that are supposed to decrease fear-bring peace, calmness. But he only induced more fear into my system.

"I have a few questions for you," a woman said to me from the passenger's seat. I nodded my head as to show I was open for questions. "What were all those dogs doing at your house?"

Would they believe me? I thought to myself, trying to figure out a clear explanation without talking about a bow-and-arrow. I had taken Aetos, of course. It was the only reason why I wasn't freaking out.

"We take care of them," I replied. "My dad and I, I mean."

She shook her head, and the man who has said everything was going to be okay started to freak. "You have to see this guy's freaking leg!" he cried, except he hadn't said "freaking". My dad'd breathing started to come out in short gasps as we approached the hospital.

The ambulance came to a halt in front of Sacramento State Hospital, and the paramedics filed out, grabbing the gurney and hauling him into the Emergency Room. I felt myself choking up because I've seen a few shows about the Emergency Room. People died there. Everything was not going to be alright I kept repeating in my head. How could it turn out "alright"? My dad was going to pass and I couldn't do a single thing about it.

One of the doctor's named Dr. Worthman signaled for IV's and drugs. I watched as everything unfolded in the small cubicle. Other patients curiously stared at the curtain as I did. For they would allow me in the room, thinking I was too "young to see this." I heard my dad scream again, and then one of the nurses ran through the curtain. She came back out and directed me towards a chair.

"We… don't know what's wrong with your dad right now," she whispered. "We're going to do everything we can. Everything will be okay." There it was again. She just said that they didn't know what was wrong with my dad. How was everything going to be alright when they didn't have a diagnosis? Nothing is alright. "Do you have any family or close friends that you know?"

I thought for a second. We had never visited any relatives, and I had no close friends. I told her that, and she continued to say, "Well you can stay with us tonight, then."

I couldn't think of anything to say. She probably couldn't, either. Think of anything to say, I mean because she only smiled at me, and then got up and walked away while I sat there thinking about how much my life sucked. Soon enough, a doctor had come and taken me to a room. It looked like a small apartment.

He smiled at me, and said, "You'll stay here for a little bit until your dad gets better." I nodded. "In the fridge you can find drinks. The cabinets have a bunch of snacks. Do you need anything at your house?"

Do I need anything from my house? "No, thanks." He continued to smile, telling me I was a "trooper." I didn't need to know this. I needed to know what was wrong with my dad. I wondered that for about a week. A whole week I went to school, wondering how my dad was doing in that cubicle. From what I've been hearing as I passed the Emergency Room everyday, "His condition is worsening." This made me nervous, as it would you. I mean, my dad is almost dead. From what I've seen, his skin is disappearing faster each day.

Then, on the seventh day, a doctor came up to me. "Your father has… passed… I forward my condolences." They are the exact words that he had said to me. The same doctor that had placed me in the apartment-like room.

"What…?" I whimpered.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured. "If you would like to continue living here, you may. And… we had come back with blood tests… your dad had Necrotizing Fasciitis, more commonly known as the flesh-eating disease. We had found out too late…."

Great.

See. I knew what this disease was before the doctor had even mentioned the "flesh-eating disease" part. The reason is because I am studying to become a doctor. Sure, I'm only ten, but a boy can dream, right? And I have done my research on a number of diseases. I made somewhat of a dictionary of diseases using note cards. I alphabetized them and everything. You know why? Because I wanted to help stop something like this happening.

But because of whatever god out there that hates me, my dad is dead, all because of me. Because I didn't even go to my notes and read through them. But now what am I going to do? If I had told that Doctor Worthman that I needed to go to my house for note cards to "study for school" I'd have been able to diagnose this.

I told the doctor this, but he had only laughed half-heartedly. "You can't blame this on yourself," he said slowly. "It's our fault. We should've diagnosed-found out what the causing disease was-your father's illness faster."

All I could do was nod, so I nodded numbly. I felt Aetos' eyes on my back, bearing into my soul. "You should've gotten the notes," it screeched at me wildly. Blame it on society, I absentmindedly thought. That's the only thing I was capable of processing at the time, my Dad's own words. Blame it on society.

"Your dad had made a will," assured Dr. Worthman. "Would you like to see it?"

"Yes, please, Dr. Worthman," I muttered under my breath.

"Please, call me Jimmy," he said happily. Really, I don't think this is the exact time to be happy, but maybe he thinks I'm a little crazy. "You've never told me your name."

He smiled again. Then again, it was probably just a mask. "Robert," I said, feeling a little better thinking that he might actually be what I need. Maybe I could stay in the apartment. Just for a few years until I'm old enough to get a job. Then I could go for a job and get an apartment of my own. That would be nice. To get an apartment for myself.

Then school came into mind. How could I have friends over if I ever made any real friends? With me being a reject because of my being mentally defected. As I said earlier, I have ADHD and dyslexia. Yup. That's me. The reject. "Sit, boy, sit," they would taunt me. They would promise friendship if I did such a thing, but they always broke those promises. Let's just say I'm not the most famous kid in my elementary school.

"Well very nice to meet you, Robert," he said, taking my hand firmly. "I'll be sure to check on you whenever I have a break."

I thanked him and he left me in the dust. I blazed over to Aetos and placed it on my shoulder. It gave off a golden shine and a bow was placed in my hand, a quiver full of a dozen arrows on my back. That's twenty-five men you've got in that quiver, my Dad had said to me once after Hellhounds had attacked.

And then it hit me. My Dad can't say that anymore, I heard myself say in my head. And it's my entire fault. It was my entire fault. Those stupid notes. Those notes that could've saved his life. I remember the exact note. All of the symptoms, diagnoses, and even the cure. Amputate that body part, take antibiotics, or wait for the infection to die out. Of course I had taken the third choice. I had a thirty-three percent chance of being right, but I wasn't. The other sixty-six percent knocked my Dad to eternal rest.

And it was my entire fault. I didn't even get to say goodbye. Run, a voice told me. Run and never come back. It's your fault he died. Run and kill yourself. It kept repeating it. I tried to knock it out of my head, but it continued to say, Kill yourself. You'll be with your father in the Fields of Punishment!

No, I said to myself. He's not in any Fields of Punishment.

I'll give you anything, I bargained with myself. Anything for my Dad back.

How about your soul? A voice questioned. But it wasn't my own. It was a voice I recognized from long ago, but I couldn't say who. It makes me laugh. He had lied to you, you know?

…. I don't have a soul, I replied, sighing at the fact. And then I remembered what the voice said.

Oh, you have a very valuable soul, said the voice before I had time to respond to its second statement.

But I didn't have time to answer. Tears were streaming down my face as I blasted arrows out my window at random things. No matter what, they would return to my quiver as I ask after it hits its mark. Although I didn't ask for them back.

No I don't, I said after gripping my emotions. I killed my Dad. I have no soul.

More tears busted out of my eyes, but I didn't bother to wipe them. I only continued to shoot, pretending that all of the objects were Hellhounds.

"Then redeem yourself," said the unknown voice. "Kill yourself. Be with him."

"I won't go to Heaven, I'd go to Hell."

"How do you know that there is either?" asked the voice. "Your father is in neither Heaven nor Hell."

That puzzled me. Here I was, arguing with myself in my head until I realized my lips were moving. I had been arguing aloud with myself without noticing. Great. Now I'm crazy. At least I'm in a hospital and the neurological center is only a few rooms away.

Jimmy walked into the room at that moment, and I quickly threw my equipment out the window. I didn't really care. It would come back. It always does. I reviewed the piece of paper that was tattered and ripped. It must've been a hundred years old.

Everything goes to my son, Robert

That's what it said in a neat print. Everything goes to my son, Robert. My son, Robert that had killed me, I had to think. Jimmy smiled reassuringly and said, "I'll drive you over at the end of my shift. Get some rest now. It's… a lot to take in…." And that is exactly what I did. I went to sleep.

But what I saw made me want to wake up immediately. I almost wanted to cry out to make everything stop, but I couldn't talk.

"Are you going to tell anyone?" asked a young girl that looked older than me, but not older than sixteen. "You can't keep him a secret for that long."

"Thalia," a girl that looked about eleven said, "we have to keep him a secret."

I woke up in a cold sweat in the bed, and Jimmy was hovering over me. "Are you okay?" he asked cautiously. I nodded as a response. That was my first glimpse at what I had to come. His eyes, I mean. I never would've expected him to be… different. I never expected myself to be… this different.

"Just for a bit longer. Maybe we could tell the girl," said the younger girl. Wait. Am I still dreaming?

"No one would believe her," said Thalia, toying with an arrow in her hand that she grabbed from her quiver.

"Exactly," retorted the girl.

"But what about the note?" challenged the older girl. She now jabbed the arrow in the ground and pulled out a knife. They were outside, and she jumped up, chopping a branch from a tree. She then started to whittle the branch.

"Yes," muttered the girl. "Selene is a tricky one… he's here!"

Thalia grabbed the arrow she jammed in the ground and threw it at me. I could here it whistle through the air, and it started to glow. I jumped back and woke up in a cold sweat. Amazing. I thought I had just awoken.