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The dusty convenience store shelves loom over Michael, each level overflowing with snacks. He’s on his tiptoes, of course, because all the good candy has to be on the fifth-fucking-shelf. It’s a tough decision, but Michael considers himself a man of immense strength.
His eyes land on the Milky Way bar first. The caramel and nougat snuggled inside the chocolate, just waiting to explode with flavor—it’s like holding a galaxy in his hand. Every Halloween, he’d go to great lengths to hide these from his half-sisters, even if it meant getting yelled at by his step-dad later. Totally worth it.
But then there’s the KitKat. The way the wafer snaps so perfectly, the chocolate cracking like pure magic. It’s simple, but if he were a doctor, he’d be handing out KitKats for everything. Bad day? Skinned elbow? Broken leg? Just throw a KitKat at it.
Michael worries his bottom lip between his teeth, mind swirling with the pros and cons of—oh, who’s he kidding? He has, like, five empty pockets right now. Anything’s possible.
In one swift move, he swipes both, tucking them into his jacket with practiced ease. He’s barely has to think about it further as his feet begin taking him down the next aisle. The clerk—some girl with earbuds in and her eyes glued to her phone—doesn’t even look up. Perfect.
His fingers continue to dance over the shelves, grabbing yet another bag of Lays for his haul. He’s done this so many times, he could do it with his eyes closed. Even the busted security camera doesn’t faze him—he knows where to stand, where to duck, like a game he’s played a million times.
By the time he’s done, the pockets of his cargo pants and jacket are stuffed with four candy bars, two bags of snacks, and a pack of baby carrots with ranch because he remembers his gym teacher once said something about balanced diets. He reaches for a can of Sprite, feeling that familiar rush. It’s not nerves—it’s the thrill, like he’s a spy on a mission. But just as his fingers curl around the can, a voice cuts through the air.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing?”
Well, fuck. Michael’s head snaps up, making direct eye contact with the clerk who’s staring straight at him now. Her eyes narrow as she tugs out one of her earbuds. She starts to rise from behind the counter, but Michael’s already moving, the soda clattering to the floor with a metallic thunk.
He bursts out of the store, straight into a wall of warm summer air. As he merges with the crowded sidewalk, the clerk shouts something after him, but there’s no chase. Michael doesn’t blame her—if the hiring poster in the window is anything to go by, she’s not paid nearly enough for that.
Weaving through the bustle, Michael pulls his jacket tighter around himself, cradling his haul close. The adrenaline starts to wane, his heart still pounding, but a grin spreads across his face. He’ll be eating like a king tonight.
He makes his way to his familiar spot, ducking into an alleyway as the noise of the street fades, replaced by the quiet solitude of the city’s forgotten corners. He reaches the gated entrance to the fire escape, vaulting over it with barely a grunt before starting his ascent. Three flights of stairs later, he reaches the window. After a few seconds of wrangling, the dusty pane finally gives way, opening with a sharp pop.
The air inside hits him with the smell of rust and dirt—pretty much just as bad as the metro D.C. air, but it’s still home. He glances around the expansive space, the ground level cluttered with dusty wooden boards, and above it, wire balconies wrapping around the room like narrow catwalks.
He’s been here for over two weeks, knows every creak and groan like the back of his hand. Which is why, when he hears it—a skittering sound, too heavy to be rats—he freezes, straddling the window. The noise continues, followed by the rustling of something being moved.
Staying low, Michael creeps along the edge of the room, his stomach twisting as he searches for the source of the noise. It doesn’t take long to spot the intruder. A girl, about his age, stands on the wire balcony, her back to him. Sleek black hair in a ponytail, gray shirt, pink shorts, sneakers falling apart at the seams—nothing remarkable, really. Except for the fact that his backpack in her hands, one hand rifling through its content like it’s her Christmas stocking.
Michael’s scowl deepens as he twists the ring on his finger, feeling it expand into the familiar weight of his bow. She doesn’t look like a monster, but she’s also clearly well-versed in the art of the five-finger discount, and that makes her a threat. He raises the bow and silently nocks an arrow, shifting his aim away from (hopefully) anything lethal.
The bow releases with a soft twang, and the girl yelps in surprise when the arrow pierces clear through the sleeve of her shirt and the wall behind her. Jumping down, he lands a few feet away in front of her on the second-floor balcony. Her dark eyes meet his own, hands wrapped tightly on the arrow’s shaft. She stares at him like she’s trying to explode him with her mind.
“Did you—you shot me with an arrow? What kind of jerk carries a bow around?”
Michael bristles, “I didn’t shoot you, I shot at you. Big difference. And you’re the one who’s trying to—”
Wait a second.
“You can see my bow?”
The girl pauses her struggle in removing the arrow to roll her eyes aggressively at him. “Duh, you’re not exactly being super sneaky.”
The urge to snipe back at her is strong, but he stays silent. He had lugged the glowing weapon with him the whole way from Michigan to Washington D.C., but never faced any questions about it. The only times someone—or something—recognized it was when one of the monsters found him.
He watches silently as she finally manages to pull the arrow out, throwing it in Michael’s direction with a growl. Her shirt sleeve is torn, revealing a thin oozing streak of dark red blood. Definitely not a monster then.
She leans down, hand reaching towards Michael’s still-opened backpack. The action is enough to rile him up again, and in a flash he has his bow nocked again and pointed at her. “Dude, really, are you gonna—”
“Drop the bow.”
Her voice washes over him, and instantly he relaxes, his bow clattering against the wire platform. His arms fall to his side as his gaze flickers from his fallen bow to the girl, who looks almost as surprised as Michael felt.
“What did you do?” he chokes out, trying to focus some feeling back into his lax fingers. He’s grateful whatever freaky curse the girl put on him allows him to still talk. The girl steels back up at his question, furrowing her brow.
“Leave me alone.”
“You’re the one who was robbing me! And you—“ he feels his fingers twitch. Focus. “We don’t need to fight if you’ll just listen to me.”
The words feel bitter on his tongue—in truth, he’s itching to find the the largest garbage bag he can hold and smack her down. But after over a month straight of dodging monsters, sleeping in abandoned buildings or on the streets, and dumpster diving for seventy percent of his meals, Michael is tired. He doesn’t want to be alone anymore, so if that meant putting up with a curse-throwing, sticky-fingered, fellow street urchin, so be it.
The girl is still scowling at him, but she crosses her arms and doesn’t move. “Well hurry up then, I don’t have all day.”
For some reason, Michael can’t fathom what could be so important that she’s in such a rush. Maybe she has another homeless kid down the street to rob blind. Or some more evil spells to memorize. It’s a fifty-fifty.
Michael squints at her. “You can see my bow.”
“Did you hit your head? I told you already, yes—”
“Do you see the monsters too then?”
She freezes. When she speaks, her voice is much smaller. “What?”
“The monsters. Y’know—big, scary, constantly saying about how delicious—”
“I know what a monster is, Robin Hood,” she grumbles. “I just thought…”
Whatever she thought is put on hold by a loud pounding at the building’s boarded door. The two freeze, staring at each other in mirrored fear as the make racket continues, muffled hissing and voices cutting through the silence.
The girl speaks after a moment. “If you’re not lying, then we need to go. Right now.”
Michael doesn’t need to be told twice. He scrambles to grab his bow and backpack with his now-working limbs (finally) before running after the girl, already climbing towards the window Michael had entered from.
They don’t talk as they slip out of the window and bolt down the stairs. Michael winces at the clattering metal steps beneath their feet, each clang reverberating through the otherwise silent building. They hit the ground in a minute, standing in the empty alleyway. Wordlessly, the girl gestures for him to follow.
They make it only a few steps further before the girl skids to a halt, eyes wide at the two towering figures blocking their path. They almost pass human—that is, until his eyes trail down and freeze at the sight the twin serpentine trunks where their legs should be. Slitted yellow eyes gleam in interest as the black-haired one steps (Slithers? It does have two of them… He decides to not think too hard on it.) forward, her voice sickly sweet.
"I knew I smelled something good,“ the snake-lady sneers, dragging out the ’s’ sounds with a hiss. The other licks her lips, revealing a forked tongue, and nods in agreement. “And two for one, too. Our lucky day.”
Michael’s hand is moving before his mind can catch up, reaching for his bow. In one fluid motion, he nocks and fires his first arrow, sinking into the arm of one of the snake-ladies. She lets out a shriek, stumbling back as her friend’s eye darken dangerously before lunging forward.
"Keep them back!" Michael shouts, barely managing to roll out of the way. The girl yelps as she ducks away to the other side, grabbing a trash can lid and holding it like a makeshift shield. She swings it upward, barely blocking the creature’s next blow as she stumbles back.
Michael perches himself on a flipped cardboard box, moving on autopilot as he nocks arrow after arrow. But the creatures are fast, their snakelike bodies twisting and coiling out of the way. He watches the girl out of the corner of his eye as she deflects blows with the lid, hurling trash and insults at the monsters. Eleven arrows later, one finally hits its mark, plunging into the chest of the uninjured snake-women. She lets out a rage-filled scream, attempting a final lunge at Michael before her body crumbles into a cloud of grimy, gray dust.
He lets out a shaky breath, jumping off his perch as he reaches for another arrow from his near-empty quiver. As he turns to look for the other snake-lady, a sharp pain shoots up his arm. He yelps, his bow slipping from his grip as he stumbles forward, hands planting hard on the concrete. He twists around, arm burning at the motion, and his breath catches—there she is, clawed fingers dripping with his blood.
He strains his neck, looking for the girl, but there’s no sight of her or her stupid trash lid. She ran—of course she did. He tries to reach for another arrow, but his arm spasms in pain, and he falls back.
The snake-lady looms closer, her lips curling into a sadistic grin. “Your father’s gifts won’t save you now,” she hisses, leaning in for the kill. Michael kicks out in a desperate attempt to move and is this really how he’s going to die well at least it’s not ohio will his mom even know did she even—
“Don’t move.”
The snake lady stiffens, hands hovering inches above Michael’s neck. His heart pounds hard as the same command washes over him, stifling him with the same lack of control as before. He watches as the monster tried to move, twitching to break and face the direction of the voice. She doesn’t get a chance to as an arrow embeds itself straight through her chest, eyes staring wild with anger and agony at Michael as she crumples into a pile of ash.
The magic wears off a few moments after as Michael furiously spits out dead monster dust out of his mouth (gross). In its place stands the girl, clutching the offending arrow tightly as she looked at Michael warily.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Really? Couldn’t tell,” he grumbles.
She ignores the comment, hesitating for a moment before kneeling next to him and tossing the arrow to the side. Her hands hover uncertainly near his bleeding arm as he pushes himself upright into a sitting position, wincing at the sting of pain. “What do I do?”
“Um, I have some bandage wrap in my bag. And there’s a bag of some lemon square looking things that might help in the front zip.”
Her cheeks go pink as she slings her own bag off her shoulder, rifling for a second before pulling out the exact items that Michael had described. He shoots her a weak glare, to which she replies by sticking her tongue out.
“Finder’s keepers,” she announces, waving the baggie in front of his face. She pulls it away the first few times Michael makes a grab for it until he finally lets out a frustrated groan. “Okay jeez, don’t cry about it.”
She drops the bag in his lap as he scowls at her before pulling out a square from the bag and breaking off a corner. As he starts nibbling on it, she leans grabs the bag from him again, sticking her nose in to smell the contents. “What do you need these things for anyways?”
He takes a moment to answer, savoring the taste of hot cocoa and candy canes that lingers on his tongue. “It’s a healing thing, I think. See?” Extending his arm, he watches as the girl’s brow furrows, watching the wound begins to knit itself closed. She glances back to the bar in her hand, breaking it into two.
“I want some,” she declares, already bringing a piece of the bar up to her mouth. Michael surges forward and smacks the piece out of her hand as they both watch it tumble to the ground. The girl blinks, looking at the now fallen square, then back at Michael with a frown.
“Well, if you’re not gonna to share, then I’m keeping the bag,” she grumbles, shoving the still-open plastic back into her pack. Michael rolls his eyes.
“You can’t just eat it like that! The guy said if you eat too much you’ll explode or something.”
The girl folds her arms over her chest. She doesn’t seem too phased by his explanation, tossing the bandage wrap up and down in one hand. “Who’s the guy? Did he give you the squares? Did he also give you the bandage stuff and the bow and—oh, and this thing.” She pulls out a slip of paper from her bag, squinting to read the bolded font. “What’s Camp Half-Bald?”
He scowls, snatching the paper and the forgotten bandage wrap roll from her hands. He shoves the bandages back in his bag—the squares finished the job well enough that he doesn’t see a point in wasting supplies. He then waves the flyer to her, scowling. “Did you leave me anything when you decided to rob me?”
The girl tilts her head, tapping her chin thoughtfully for a moment. “The ugly blue shirt with the dog on it. And a stick of gum,” she says cheerfully.
Michael sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “If we’re going to be sticking together, we need to talk about—well, all the weird crap. Like the monster ladies. And your witchcraft.”
The girl levels him with a glare. “It’s not witchcraft.”
“Well, what else am I supposed to call it? Creepy curses? Big girl words?”
“That’s even worse! You—shut your mouth.”
The said big girl words seem to roll off her tongue like honey as he bites back a groan. “Really, again?” he thinks, frustration bubbling up as his mouth seals shut. It’s not as panic-inducing as before, but he still glowers at the girl and her smug expression when his lips remain pressed together.
“My questions first,” she declares, leaning over and snatching the flyer back before waving it aggressively in his face. “What’s this about?”
Michael doesn’t answer, just glares at her. Thirty seconds later, his jaw finally loosens as he lets out a frustrated sigh. “Can you at least tell me your name before you start nosing around my stuff?”
She narrows her eyes at him with a frown. “You’re the one who wanted us to talk about the magic stuff. So we’re talking.” At his lack of reply, she lets out a dramatic groan, rolling her eyes. “It’s Drew.”
Michael blinks. “Huh?”
“My name, dummy,” she grumbles, folding her arms across her chest. “Now tell me yours and then answer my question.”
“You could say please.”
“Shut your—”
“Okay, okay! My name is Michael. And that flyer is for where I’m trying to go—Camp Half-Blood.”
Drew looks back at the paper, mouthing the words silently as she scans the text and photos of smiling campers. After a few moments, she hands the paper back to him with a frown. “What does it say?”
Michael takes the flyer back, smoothing out the creases. “You can’t read it?”
Her cheeks flush red, and her frown deepens into a scowl. Before she can reply, he waves her off. “Well, I can’t read it either. But Blondie said it’s somewhere monsters can’t get me.”
Drew wrinkles her nose. “Who’s Blondie?”
“Some guy who showed up in my dreams. Said he was my dad and that he’s God or something. Told me to head East. Then I woke up with these magic squares, the flyer, and this.” He gestures to his bow and quiver.
Drew stares at him for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Ah. You’re crazy.”
Rude. “You’re acting like you didn’t see the snake ladies trying to eat us like ten minutes ago.”
“You said your dad is God,” she protests. “What am I supposed to say?”
He scowls, tucking the flyer back into his bag. “Is it really that crazy? I have a bow, we killed some snake-ladies, you have your magic—” he squints at her critically. “What is the voice thing you do, anyways?”
Drew shrugs, glancing to the side. “I dunno. Sometimes I say things and people do it.” He waits for her to elaborate more, but she doesn’t.
“You don’t have any idea what it is?” He asks, bewildered. “You’ve done it like, three times already!”
“I can’t really control it,” she protests, face flushing. “I mean, for smaller things like making people shut up, it works. But otherwise it just, like, happens.”
Michael scowls. He wants to pry for more details but he’s admittedly a little scared of pushing her too far since she’s confirmed she can make him shut up on cue. Instead, he twists around and grabs his bow, snapping the string once as it shrinks back into a ring. Enjoying her look of awe at his weapon’s transformation, he pulls his backpack onto his shoulders.
“Well, if you don’t think I’m too crazy, then you’re welcome to come with me. Otherwise, give me my shit back and get lost.”
Drew considers this for a moment. “You’re annoying,” she declares—a wonderful start. “But your bow can kill monsters and my knife can’t, so I guess I’ll stay with you.” he pulls a small blade from her pocket, absently twirling it. “Does this mean I’m God’s kid too?”
Michael shudders, shaking his head. The thought of being related to this gremlin pains him. “I hope not.”
They both take a minute to gather their things. Michael pulls out one of the (not destroyed, hooray!) chip bags from his jacket pocket, ripping it open. He shoves a handful in his mouth before extending the bag toward Drew.
She wrinkles her nose. “Did you wash your hands? You’re covered in the lady snake dust.”
Michael just shrugs, pulling the bag back and taking another handful. “If you’re going to follow me, you can’t be all prissy about stuff like that.”
Drew shoots him a disgusted look but wisely keeps her mouth shut. “Can we stay here? If the snake ladies found us, something else might come looking for us.”
Michael glances back to the building, feeling a strange twinge of disappointment at leaving the crusty place behind as they start walking. “I guess so. Normally I just keep moving when they find me. But I’m still saving up to get a ticket out.”
Drew pats her bag. “I have, like, a hundred dollars. Can we use that?”
Michael freezes, his jaw dropping. “How do you have a hundred dollars?”
She folds her arms across her check, tilting her head at him with a look that say are you stupid? “I told you, I ask people for things, and sometimes they listen.”
Michael stares at her in disbelief. If God dude is really her dad too, he’s filing a formal complaint. Of course, she’d get mind-control powers to rob people, while all he gets is a stinking bow.
To his surprise and further annoyance, Drew starts to giggle. “You look stupid getting all pouty.” Before he can reply, she continues, “I’m hungry. There’s a place near my hideout with good pancakes, so let’s go.”
He frowns for a moment. They probably should save the money, but his stomach, the lousy traitor, is already grumbling at the thought of real food. “Fine, but tomorrow you better use your big girl words and double that money.”
Drew narrows her eyes for a moment. “I think you really should shut—”
One minute later, they emerge from the alleyway. Michael’s mouth sealed shut and him begrudgingly resigned to his current fate.