( at first he doesn’t recognize him. he’s not freshly sixteen. gone is the boy, wet behind the ears, unable to see beyond his own nose. there’s something in his eyes he can’t place ( something he feels he’s known for years ) but the anger he recognizes. his voice. he’s been on the receiving end of that vehemence before and for luke, it hasn’t been some time. his clearest memory is the throne room on olympus — percy, grover, thalia, annabeth.

unconsciously, he tucks his hand under his arm, all at once tense and uncertain. he can still feel the dagger like a phantom pain.

that fog shifts, releasing him from the haze and he rises to full height with a familiar scoff. how predictable. a group of people, huddled in the street, literally with bombs ( smelly ones ) in their hands and he’s zeroed in on luke. )

What do I think I’m doing? ( enjoying a fabulous mimosa? digging the fresh air? punching you in the throat??? he spreads out his arms, hands up ( they’re empty, percy ), and gestures wildly at the spectacle before them. ) Encouraging these fine people to get themselves killed.

( obviously, right? that's what he does. there's a scraping bitter edge to his voice — yeah, he's aware he's putting it on thick, thanks. )

I'm trying to pick up your slack and change their minds. What are you doing?