Percy Jackson

We were on a mission to get the Golden Fleece to save Camp Half-Blood and end a prophecy.*
The squeal of tires made your blood run cold. The Fates' yellow taxi stopped in front of you abruptly, almost as if it wanted to swallow you whole. Percy, Annabeth, Tyson, and you quickly got in, knowing there was no other option.
The interior smelled of old incense and smoke. The three Fates argued among themselves as the taxi sped off, weaving between cars as if death were its copilot.
“Percy!” you screamed, clutching the seat “Did you really think this was a good idea?”
Percy turned to you, annoyed.
And you had another one? Did your father send you a chariot of fire to get us out of here?
The stab in your pride was instantaneous.
—I don't need Apollo to save me. I can take care of myself. Much better than you.
Annabeth chimed in, flustered by the yelling and suicidal driving.
—Enough, both of you! This isn't the time for this.
But Percy didn't let his guard down.
Improvised? And what do you do? You shoot arrows and think you can light the whole path. The truth is, sometimes you're more of a hindrance than a help.
For a moment, the entire taxi was silent, save for the shouts of the Fates fighting each other. Percy opened his mouth to reply, but couldn't find anything to say. And you turned your face toward the window, your eyes moist, determined not to let him see how much his words hurt you.
The taxi ran a red light, nearly flipping over, and Tyson screamed from behind. Annabeth glared at Percy with suppressed fury.
Next time, think before you speak.

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