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miraclesnail · 5 years

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Writer’s Month Day 10: Dark AU

Fandom: PJO

Summary: So alternate dimensions exist and guess what! Turns out in one of those dimensions, I am on Kronos’s side. Who woulda guess?

(Sorry, this is my self-indulgent fic for Kronos-side!Travis and Connor. I actually have a lot more ideas for this and once I’m done with the published wip I have on ao3, I’ll turn this into a multi-chapter! I used this prompt to kick start the first chapter which is always the hardest for me :P)

Content Warning: graphic violence

Words: 3.7k

When you think of Travis Stoll, what comes to mind?

Powerful? Important? A main character in the grand scheme of things?

Hell no.

Weak, insignificant, and a side character more like it, right?

That’s who he is. A minor character, someone who doesn’t get quests, whose contributions barely make a ripple, and only remembered as that one guy who likes to prank.

So why — why, why, why, why, why — is he being chased by a man in stupid black sweatpants and a stupid black turtleneck in a stupid black motorcycle helmet holding a stupid, blood-stained, 13 inch knife?

This is something Percy gets into. Or Nico. Or Jason.

But not him.

Never him.

Travis leaps over rubble, feet catching on the granite, and tumbles forward. He curses loudly, but rights himself and continue running. He doesn’t dare look back (he heard the stories. You look back to see where the killer is and you end up tripping and dying), so he keeps his eyes train up ahead to the not quite darkness, but close enough darkness that objects are just a dark fuzz.

Rain is pouring a thunderous downpour, a drumming so loud it’s like a waterfall. The occasional lightning gives him a clear snapshot of his surroundings and those few milliseconds where he could see the rubble, he engraves in his mind.

A fallen cabinet, a broken desk, shattered computers, a houseplant, a family portrait, cracked tile floors, a hole-ridden hand hanging over a toppled swivel chair—

Nope! Nope, nope, nope, nope. He did not saw that. That is not what he thinks it is. That has to be doll or a mannequin. Something fake and plastic. Not real and flesh, because if it is then that means there’s something wrong! Something is killing people! (plague, monsters, aliens) And Travis don’t have time to think about that just yet.

There’s a turn up ahead. Left? Right? Right is always right so right it is.

He slows only a little bit, if only to make sure to doesn’t crash into the wall, before running full speed again. He prays to his dad that there’s no rubble in his way.

And like his prayer is answered, lightning flashes, thunder booms and Travis skids to a stop, sneakers barely gripping the wet tiles that otherwise would have sent him careening over the edge of the crumbled building wall. He clasps his shaking hands together and take a deep breath, commanding his pounding heart to calm down, that no, you did not die. You almost die, but you didn’t. So stop beating so fast.

He takes in the surrounding, noting the clouds first. They’re dark grey and expands as far as the broken, tilted buildings allow him to see. It blots out the sun and explains the darkness even though just a few minutes ago, it was as sunny as Camp Half Blood could be. His eyes lower to the buildings, all with broken windows, missing sections of bodies, and most tilted too precariously to be considered stable. He lower his eyes even further and gulps when he couldn’t see the bottom. A heavy mist permeates a couple feet down that not even the heavy rain could dissipate. For all he knows, the fall could be 20 feet or 150 feet.

Is there a way to get to the floor below him? Maybe if he just cling to the wall and — nope, the moment his hand touches where the wall meets air, it crumbles. There’s no way he can descend to the floor below.

Macaroni.

This is a dead end.

He turns around, fumbling and tripping over his shoulders, but freezes.

Someone is turning the corner. And the glint of that wicked knife in their hand tells him it’s not Chiron dressed as Santa Clause.

Cheese sticks, he’s trapped. Maybe he could hide before the man sees him and wait till — the man turns to the aisle to him and walks right in the middle towards him.

Oh holy sandals. Travis takes a step back and his heel pushes the rubble off the ledge, a grim reminder that there’s no exit behind him. He glances behind him, a who-knows-how-high-drop into the abyss, then back to the front, a cynical man with a loose grip on his knife.

Which is the better chance? Should he just jump? Does he even know if the man is dangerous?

He has a knife and it’s stained with blood! Of course he’s dangerous! Travis bites his lips. If Connor was here, he knows what to do.

The man is drawing scarily close now, close enough for Travis to see the black, tight-fitting sport shirt with long sleeves and collar up to his chin. Close enough for him to see his belt ladles with all sort of pointy objects. Close enough to see the brand of his black pants. Close enough to see black, hiking boots and definitely close enough to see the ocean blue of his eyes past the tinted shield of his Motorcycle helmet.

They’re cold, terrifying cold.

If Travis wasn’t so scared for his life, he would ask the man where he shops. He’s sure Nico would like to know.

He glances over his shoulder to the abyss again and stiffens. He can’t survive a high fall. He’s not Percy or Jason. There’s no way he can buffer his fall, but he’s a good talker. He’ll talk his way out of this like he always have with his pranks. So he snaps his eyes back forward and steels himself.

“H-Hey!” AH NO his voice cracked! “Pal, buddy, amigo, I don’t know if this is your idea of a joke or a prank or just a very elaborate plan to get me to pee my pants, but can you please stop?”

The man didn’t even falter, didn’t even miss a step.

“Look, I applaud you. Your dedication to your role is amazing, like your costume is some A+ design.”

Oh gods, he’s still coming. And he’s actually tightening his grip on his knife!

“Unless you really are here to kill me to which I say, please don’t. I don’t even have a weapon to protect myself! That’s not fair, you know?”

And finally, finally, finally, the man stops walking towards him, only standing two arms length away. He raises his free hand and Travis jerks his body into defense, but the rising hand only rubs the man’s neck. He raises his chin and talks. “Are you done, Connor? I don’t have time for your jokes.”

The response is automatic, years of being called the wrong name ingrained this reflex in him. It’s natural to him, something he doesn’t even think about. As soon as the man finished his sentence, Travis was already saying, “I’m Travis.”

The man falters and so did he.

Most people never hear their voice before, most probably can’t identify their voice. But Travis hears his voice every day and before he left for college, every second of his life. They all said he shares everything with Connor, even in voice.

“You… have the same voice as me,” Travis says hesitantly.

The man isn’t advancing, his wide eyes train on Travis. He could see shock, surprise in those eyes. Or maybe it’s mania. It’s easier to differentiate emotions with the mouth in view. He stares for a few more seconds, looking up and down his entire body although his stare linger most on his Camp Half Blood shirt.

“You’re… Travis?” he whispers.

There’s no mistaking it. That’s definitely his voice and there’s only one person Travis knows who shares the same voice as his.

“Connor, you donkey. This isn’t funny. You really scared me!” The man freezes at his words, but Travis didn’t really pay much attention to it. Serves Connor right. He should have realize his older brother isn’t that stupid he can’t figure out this whole situation is a prank.

He kicks the rubble, all tension leaving him. “I have to admit though that this is so cool. Who did you bribe to make this? Hazel? Lou Ellen? Annabeth? Wow, this place is so realistic.”

He saunters over to Connor. “And your costume is so cool. Did you got it from Nico?”

He’s standing in front of Connor now, but his grins falter. Something is off. There’s fear in his eyes. Connor fears nothing.

“Connor?” he asks, worry creeping into his voice. “What’s wrong?”

He raises a hand to take the gloved hand into his.

It happen then.

Travis is falling backwards, feet kicked in from below him. As he falls, he sees the fear melds into panic, rage as his back hit the tile and an arm raising a dagger that is definitely not celestial bronze and he watches as the dagger comes closer, closer, and closer to his face.

It stops an inch from his eye.

He didn't move.

The hand holding the dagger looming dangerously over his face is shaking. Shaking rather badly. He wonders if he could ask Connor if he could just move that dagger out of way a bit.

“Why.”

He spoke again. That’s definitely Connor’s voice.

“Why didn’t you run? What are you doing? What game are you playing, Connor?” The voice is shaking so badly, more bad than his hand that is holding the dagger too close to his face. His instincts kicks in. He’s not playing along anymore.

He grabs the hand with the weapon and tugs it off to the side. He stands up and picks up Connor with him too. “Let’s stop with the pranks for the moment. Are you okay?” he asks.

Connor shakes his head, backing away.

Now Travis is really worried. “What’s the matter then?”

He doesn’t get an answer. Instead Connor rubs his neck. He takes a shuddering breath. “Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods.”

Travis takes a step forward. “Connor, come on. You’re really sca—”

“I’m not Connor,” ‘Connor’ snaps. “I’m — I’m not who you — I’m just a dream. You’re dreaming. Now you’re gonna wake up.

Not-Connor shoves his hand through his plumber’s belt and takes out a clover leaf the size of his palm. He holds it by the stem, twirls it once and let if fall. The air ripples as it descend, shimmering and and waving until the gray canvas that was the wall became a patch of beautiful yellow and grass.

“You’re dreaming,” Not-Connor repeats.

Travis didn’t say anything, because really, this burn in his side? This heart pounding from his near fall off the ledge? This pain in his chest from the worry? It all feels so real to him.

Maybe this is how lucid dreaming is. It doesn’t matter. The man in front of him is in pain. The man shares his and Connor’s voice. Dream or no dream, he can’t let his brother imposter suffer. So he lingers. He looks to the side. He opens his mouth. “Hey, are you really—”

Then Travis is falling for the second time that day. The man grunts and shoves him to the side with a hand. His other hand raises a shield, Athena’s Aegis shield, the shield with Medusa’s face that could with one look turn anything to stone. No sooner did he realize that and tries to avert his eyes (Annabeth’s lecturing voice always coming to haunt him with Greek lessons), did he sees an arrow fly past him. It hits the shield with a thunk and Travis looks back to see the man recoiling from the impact. He’s falling back, falling right into the shimmering canvas with the pretty grass and sunkissed trees.

That moment, their eyes met. One in shock, the other with fear.

Their hand reaches out, grasping at nothing, the blue in their eyes gleaming with despair and he was gone. The shimmering canvas is gone. The man is gone. Travis is all alone sans the crunch, crunch of boots stepping on broken tile.

Travis turns his head sharply to see who’s coming and winces at the sudden voice from the end of the aisle shrouded in dark. “Listen to my orders or I’ll shoot again.”

He listens, head down and a sick feeling in his stomach. This isn’t a prank, is it? This is real. This situation is real. “Hands up, all the way up.”

As Travis complies, he could see leather boots in his peripheral vision. Even though he’s scared shitless and just as clueless, his curiosity beats over every emotion he has. And with his brother’s voice yelling in his voice about how he’s stupid and dumb and reckless, he raises his head up slowly.

Past the brown, leather boots.

Past the tears-riddled jeans.

Past the cloth-covered arm and the crossbow in that arm, arrow notched and pointed at his face.

And to the scrunched up face that’s really familiar.

He didn’t change much at all. He’s still short. His hair is still black. He’s still scowling. His face is still scrunched up like he stared down the shaft of his arrow for too long. The only thing that’s different is the bow — he always justs a traditional bow, not a crossbow — and the hostility.

His friend never looked at him like that.

Michael Yew glares at him like he’s Kronos himself and says with hate Travis didn’t know Michael has, “Travis. I swear on my left arm that if you move one more time, I’ll make sure you won’t be able to walk.”

////////////

He’s tumbling back. It strikes him that the portal site is behind him.

But it’s too late.

He can’t plant his feet in time. [no.]

He’s falling. [no.]

His eyes meet the boy’s with the painful orange shirt and they’re wide, clueless, still bright with life, not dead like his are.

He’s passing. [no.]

Not the kid in front of him.

Not the kid.

And he’s out there.

And shit. Fuck. shit shit shit. [do something!]

He reaches out, praying, hoping, that his fingers snag on his.

But it didn’t.

And he’s falling.

falling

falling.

The ground comes faster than he expected.

He groans, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head, and opens his eyes.

Blinding yellow, that’s the first thing he notices.

Speckled blue and swaying green are the next.

Colors. Real colors. He’s seeing real colors.

[what is this? what’s going on?]

He leans forward, hands crunching — no, something crunching when he uses his hands as leverage to stand. Green, he sees, and brown. Soft green, hard brown.

He stares at it, knowing what they are, but the names… their names aren’t coming to him. None of this are. It’s been so long since he saw them, or even uses their words.

But he eventually recalls what they are. Leaves and sticks and the sun, the sky, the trees, the —

[we shouldn’t have these]

He bolts to his feet, stumbling heavily. It’s too hot. It’s too warm. It’s suffocating. He rips the helmet off and tosses it aside. But it isn’t better. He can see more, could hear more, could smell more. (The clouds, the wind, the birds, the chirping, the trees, the swaying )

Someone’s breathing heavily and he spins around out of instinct, expecting a stumbler but only seeing more trees (pine trees, birch trees, willow trees)

[calm down you need to calm down]

It’s him. He’s breathing too loud and he stops gulping air, holding it in. And then letting it go. He can’t panic here. He needs to find a way back over. He’s in danger. He’s out there. He saw him, saw them running. He knows they’re there. He needs to get back now.

He fumbles with his thigh pouch (the ground, it’s so dry) his hands won’t stop shaking (he could see the the sky) he could see the inklings of the green leaf among the black inside of his pouch (the sun feels so warm) and he grasps it in his gloved hand.

They crumble into pieces that the wind blew away.

He stares at the crumbled pieces, not comprehending, not understanding.

This is a dream. It has to be a dream. There’s no possible explanation.

His neck twinges and he cups it.

It hurts.

It hurts. This isn’t a dream. It can’t be a dream. It hurts.

So this is real? [it’s real] Is all this real? [it’s real] Or is it just another twisted image the Gods are giving him? [i can’t believe this is real.]

He starts when a branch cracks behind him and before he could turn around, a man’s voice rings out,

“Travis! There you are!”

It’s familiar. But also not.

“Where you been? We’ve been looking for you for over an hour.”

A remnant of a memory from so long ago floats to the surface.

“Come on, I have arts and crafts with your cabin. Tyson is stoked for it.”

And he turns around to see him. The one that haunts his dreams. That terrorizes his sleep and stalks his conscious. The one with black hair (caked with blood) that hangs over sea-green eyes (fill with bloodlust) and a grin (a glower) on his face with a 6 (6?) beaded necklace over a sickening bright, orange T-shirt.

Son of Poseidon, Perseus Jackson.

His blood freezes.

His heart stops.

His throat closes.

[kill him.]

And a hazy, belligerent red washes over him.

[don’t. you need to run. you’re in danger] [no. you should kill him]

[get out of there. he’ll kill you] [kill him. end this life]

[run away now][get your revenge]

“Travis? What’s the matter?” Perseus asks, his voice infuriatingly friendly, light-hearted.

Perseus takes one step towards him [run] [attack] and another and one more till he’s within arms reach.

[within stabbing reach. do it. do it now.]

[don’t. run. please. just run.]

[aim for his torso. let his organs trail.]

[stop it.]

[you’re going to run like a coward? after everything he did to you?]

[don’t listen to him. run away.]

[don’t be a coward.]

[you need to survive.]

“Travis? You okay? You look like you’re out of it.” And a hand touches his shoulder.

He made his decision then.

He pulls the knife from his thigh and lunges forward with every intention of stabbing the face clean of skin, muscle, and bone.

Perseus leaps back, stuttering, “Hey! What are doing?”

He shot forward. The chest is just as good as the face. Probably more painful too.

“Travis! What the heck! What’s wrong? Hey!”

He didn’t answer. All that matters is getting his dagger into (unmarred?) flesh and twisting it free and thrusting it back in. Again and again and again. Till he’s dead as much as the others.

Perseus turns tail and runs.

He follows.

“Crap, crap, crap!”

He catches up in seconds, kicking his feet out under him so he’ll tumble to the ground. He’s on him the next second, pulling the arm behind Percy’s back and across to rest against his hips. He pushes down at the wrist. The yelp that follows didn’t quench the red haze. Maybe if he sees actual red, actual blood. He raises his knife. Perseus bucks and tries to throw him off and he nearly did, but he locks down more. A knife in the spine should stop his struggling. He tightens his hold on his handle, lift it higher and —

someone rips it from his hand.

Another pulls him back by the shoulder till he’s off completely and on his back.

And a third is trying to restrain him by digging their knee into the cavity of his throat.

He slips his dagger from behind his back and jabs the knife right above where the kneecap should be. He slices out. Blood splatters across his face and screams break out in multiple directions. One in pain. Several in terror. Zombies don’t scream. Zombies don’t bleed. The knees retracts and he rolls out from under the restraint and onto his knees.

But a hand is already on his upper arm the next second. He grabs the owner’s arm and their ugly orange shirt, sweep his leg out, and tugs down. The fourth person fell.

But a fifth and sixth person already have hands on him and they shove his face into the dirt and pin his wrists behind his back.

He struggles for all he’s worth, but there’s more hands and more force and more yelling. So he struggles harder.

“Shit, what the fuck is wrong with you Travis!”

He kicks a shin.

“Clarisse! Clarisse!! Oh my god. Oh my GOD!”

He bites a hand.

“Get out of my way. I’m going to kick his teeth in!”

He headbutts someone in the balls.

“Dude, calm down! Piper, charmspeak his ass!”

[Piper?] and he stops struggling.

Hands are locking his wrist together. But the only thing he can think about is

[Piper? But Piper is—]

“Forget charmspeaking. Someone get Connor! Wait, I see him. Connor, get over here! Your brother went off the radar.”

“Travis.”

He raises his head an inch and stare at the monster. At the man. At the horse. A centaur. A familiar face. A face from before the apocalypse. What was his name?

“Travis, will you please tell us what is ailing you?”

Gods, what is his name? What is his name?

[a bastard]

“Travis? Can you understand me?”

What was it? Cylas? Chance? Camdyn? Caelan? Charon? Chiron?

“What are you wearing, Travis? ”

Chiron. It was Chiron.

“Travis, can you speak?”

Chiron Chiron Chiron Chiron Chiron. That’s Chiron. But how, why, what?

“Tra… vis?”

And he trace it to the source, eyes landing on the face he sees everyday. The ocean blue eyes he etchs down to memory. The unruly, unbrushed brown hair he knows down to the last curl. But the orange shirt. The brown khakis. The 9 beaded necklace. That thin line running across his left brow. The surprise, the worry, the unsureness is all new.

That isn’t his brother.

The beads don’t match up. The scar don’t add up. Something’s wrong.

Another man comes up beside Chiron. He looks familiar too. But he recalls his name in an instant. Dionysus.

Dionysus waves a hand and his eyes fall shut without permission. Before passing out, he hears Chiron, in his scold he haven’t heard for so, so long, “Mr. D!”

#writersmonth2019 #day 10: dark AU #travis stoll #connor stoll #michael yew #percy jackson #heheheh... idk #i have the basics plotted out #everything else though... not so much #pjo

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