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Chapter Text

Ah, Thanksgiving. A time to be with friends and family. Well, for me, that's a little hard, because my mom and stepdad were killed by Gaea during the Giant War, but you probably already knew that. Even so, since Annabeth was in New York for high school, and Grover was relatively close back at Camp Half-Blood, I still could celebrate it with my two best friends.

Another good thing about this Thanksgiving was that at Alternative High School, we had a two week Thanksgiving break. That was amazing, since I was a tad behind on my schoolwork. Unfortunately, I still had to get through the start of November. I’d found it suspicious that I’d had a good two months after my quest for Ganymede without any word of another quest, but I wasn’t going to let this time of relaxation be wasted.

Of course, it couldn’t last forever.

On November first, as I was in my apartment trying (and failing) to do my math homework, I heard a knock at the door. I immediately grabbed my ballpoint pen that was on the coffee table, ready to uncap it and turn it into my trusty sword, Riptide. Call me paranoid (which I was), but in my business, you can never be too careful.

I crept to the door and slowly opened it, and saw a man standing there.

He had an athletic build, like one a runner would have. He had a t-shirt that had a race car on it and jogging pants on, along with a metal helmet with lightning bolts on the sides on his head and Nike jogging shoes with wings on them. He had curly black hair and blue eyes that held a mischievous spark to them, like he was setting up a prank. I immediately recognized the guy.

“Hey, Hermes,” I said.

Hermes grinned. "Hey, cous!" he exclaimed, a little too eager for my liking

I stepped aside to let Hermes in. I sat down on the couch, while Hermes stood in front of me, his foot tapping on the floor very fast, like he was bouncing it to a beat on timelapse.

"So, Per-"

“Let me guess, you have a quest for me so that I can get recommendation letters in order to go to New Rome?" I asked, but my tone made it clear that I already knew the answer.

Hermes paused before nodding. "Yes, but it's…a little different from other quests," he said, which immediately made me suspicious.

"What do you mean?" I asked, my tone making it sound like I was interrogating him. My eyes slowly became Scar's-eyes green, which is a sign that I was getting agitated.

Hermes gulped. "Well, Percy, the quest is… for you to…
competeintheWingsAroundtheGlobeRally," he said quickly.

"What?" I asked, wanting to know what the Hades he had said.

Hermes sighed, before saying slowly, "The quest is for you to compete in the Wings Around the Globe Rally.”

I was even more confused. "The what?" I asked, tilting my head slightly in confusion.

Hermes took a deep breath before explaining. “The Wings Around the Globe Rally is an annual air racing event with competitors from all over the world. It goes across the entire world, broken up into different legs.”

“And why do you want me to compete in it?” I asked.

“Well, you're my favorite cousin, and I wanted to help you," Hermes said. "I figured that it might help your application if you competed in a world wide competition where only the best compete.”

I sighed. I understood that he was trying to help me, and I couldn't exactly say no to a quest, especially when I needed to do it to go to college with Annabeth.

I looked at Hermes, and nodded. "Alright, I'll do it. When does it start?"

"Well, time trials are next weekend."

"Wait, time trials?" I asked, confused by what he was saying.

Hermes snapped his fingers, and in my hands was a pamphlet that read, 'Rules of the Wings Around the Globe Rally', along with a key.

"What's the key for?" | asked, looking at Hermes.

Hermes smiled. "For your plane, of course! See you soon!"

And in a burst of light, he was gone.

Chapter Text

When I told Annabeth and Grover, they were at a loss for words.

“Can you repeat that, Percy?” Annabeth asked, her eyes wide in bewilderment.

“Hermes gave me a quest where I have to compete in some air racing competition called the Wings Around the Globe Rally," I said.

Grover looked at me. “Have you read the pamphlet?” he asked.

I shook my head. "No. As soon as Hermes left, I called you guys and set up dinner, so I didn't have a chance to."

Annabeth looked at the pamphlet, which was currently on the kitchen counter. "Well, I say we look at it," she said.

I reached over to the counter and grabbed the pamphlet, before opening it. Luckily, it was in Ancient Greek (Why? I don't know), so my dyslexia didn't interfere.

"It says…" I started, "The Wings Around the Globe Rally is the flagship event of the world's fastest sport. It says that any person over the age of seventeen can enter with any plane they would like to. It states that you must enter a time trial event and finish in a high enough place to compete in the actual rally itself. It has seven legs. It starts here in New York, and goes to Iceland. Then, the next leg is from Iceland to Germany, followed by Germany to India. Next is a leg through the Himalayan Mountains to Nepal, followed by a leg to China. The second to last leg is from China to Mexico, and finally, a last dash from Mexico back to New York."

Annabeth and Grover's eyes were wide, their mouths hanging open a little bit.

"You have to fly across the Himalayas?!” Annabeth cried, her voice tight with anxiety.

"And the entire Pacific Ocean?" Grover added, equally as worried.

I sighed. "Guys, look, I know this seems crazy, and that's because… well, it is, but I have to do this if I want to get to New Rome University."

Annabeth and Grover sighed, but nodded, knowing it was necessary.

“So,” said Grover, “should we start practicing?”

The next day was Sunday, and Hermes had told us where the plane was: in a wide, grassy area where I could practice flying. We followed his directions and found the plane. It was practically identical in shape to an Air Tractor AT-802, which is a crop dusting plane. Its paint job was predominantly orange on the top half, and white on the bottom, with some blue lines on the side, along with a number seven on either side.

"Well…" Annabeth trailed off, but I knew what she was thinking.

"I know," I said, "but we gotta use it."

I climbed on the wing and opened up the cockpit to get in, but Grover spoke up. “Um, Percy," he said, his voice full of concern. "Do you know how to fly a plane?"

I looked at him and nodded. “Yeah, I do. Before I met you guys, back at one of my boarding schools, I had a friend whose grandfather served in the Second World War, and he taught us how to actually fly planes. At least, prop planes like these.”

Grover and Annabeth shared a look, probably silently deciding how idiotic this was, before looking back at me and nodding. I got into the cockpit and put on my headset, while Annabeth and Grover put on theirs so they could communicate with me.

"Ready, Percy?" Annabeth asked.

I nodded. "10-4, Annabeth," I replied, before starting up the plane. Within a few seconds, the plane was off the ground.

As I flew, I heard Annabeth over the radio. "Okay, we'll start with some corn row sprints. Drop and give me twenty!"

I did so and flew all the way up and down.

Grover spoke next. "Okay, adjust your angle of bank with your alien irons!"

I chuckled. "You mean ailerons?" I asked cheekily.

Grover laughed sheepishly. "Oh, yeah."

After a bit more practice, we headed back to my place. We were watching some tapes of the Wings Around the Globe Rally to study when Annabeth spoke up. She looked at me. "You know, Percy, I may be a daughter of Athena, but I don't know a lot about flying."

I looked back at her, confused. Whenever Annabeth admitted she didn’t know a lot about something, that usually meant we were screwed.

"What are you getting at, Annabeth?" I asked.

"Well, I'm just saying that maybe we could use… umm… some help," she replied.

“Help?” I repeated. “From who?”

"Well, I was thinking of… umm, Skipper Riley?" she suggested.

"You mean that old son of Athena pilot just outside of the city?" I asked doubtfully.

"Sure, he's a war hero," Annabeth insisted.

I scoffed a little bit. "He's an old curmudgeon," I replied.

"Well," Grover spoke up, looking at us, "my buddy Sparky says that Skipper was a legendary flight instructor in the Navy! That's right, he knows stuff."

I looked at Grover. "He hasn't flown for decades. Why would I want to learn from a pilot who doesn't even fly?"

"At least he's a pilot," Annabeth countered.

I sighed and conceded. "Alright, let's go visit him."

Chapter Text

We stood in front of Skipper's residence, an old school air hangar that looks like a half cylinder. A black flag waved in the front, which showed a white skull and crossbones and the text, ‘VF-17’ under it. Annabeth, Grover, and I stood in front of the door, just looking at the building.

“They say he shot down 50 planes. I heard stories about his squadron: The Jolly Rogers," Annabeth whispered to us conspiratorially. "They were the roughest, toughest, meanest flyers in the Navy. Ruthless killers, who showed no mercy. They'd kill you as soon as they looked at you."

I rang the doorbell. "I hope you're right."

I looked back, expecting to see Annabeth and Grover right behind me. Instead, they were hiding behind a tree, peaking past it to look at me.

“Guys!” I didn’t know whether to be mad at them or scared of Skipper. But before I could yell at them, the door opened to reveal Skipper.

Skipper wore a dark blue pilot's uniform that looked like it was from World War II. On the top right of it was an emblem. It was a white star inside a dark blue circle, with white rectangles with dark blue borders coming from either side. On his sleeve was the same skull and crossbones logo that I saw on the flag, and just below it was a white number 7. He had short gray hair, and didn't look as old as he really should have. What I mean is that he looked about fifty years old or so, which didn't make a ton of sense considering that, at least from what I had heard, he had fought in World War II. His expression was stern, which said in neon letters that he was a no-nonsense kind of person.

"Uh, hey, there, Skipper," I stammered, chuckling nervously. "So, umm, I'm trying out for the Wings Around the Globe Rally because it was a quest given to me by Hermes. And, umm, I know you can't fly anymore, but, umm, you know, they say that those who can't do, teach! So... o-okay, w-what I mean to say is, you're an actual pilot, so I was wondering if you would train me?"

There were a few moments of silence before the door closed. I looked back at Annabeth and Grover, shrugging my shoulders.

"Go on!" Grover encouraged. "He's warming up to you!"

I rang the doorbell again, and once again, Skipper opened it. "So, I heard you shot down 50 planes," I said, trying to be as friendly as possible.

"You looking to be number fifty-one?" Skipper asked gruffly, and I could tell that he wasn't joking.

"Well, no, but, I'm just saying that with my guts and your glory-"

"Your guts would be a grease spot on our runway somewhere," Skipper interrupted. "Go home. You're in over your head, kid."

And with that, the door shut again, and I sighed in defeat.

Chapter Text

The next day was Monday. I can all hear you groaning, and trust me, I groaned too, but in order to graduate and get to New Rome, I had to go.

Anyway, during a free period, I went to see Eudora, my nereid guidance counselor.

I walked in and saw Sicky Frog, still looking as miserable as ever on the wall. Eudora sat in her chair behind the desk, and smiled when she saw me.

"Hello, Percy!" she said cheerfully. "Any new quests for recommendation letters?"

I sighed. “Yeah, you could say that,” I told her. “It’s from Hermes. Apparently, I’m going to compete in some air racing event called the Wings Around the Globe Rally.”

Eudora’s eyes widened, her smile becoming a nervous frown. “T-T-The Wings A-Around the Globe R-Rally?” she stuttered, her watery eyes flickering with concern.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, unable to ignore the sudden change in her demeanor.

Eudora took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. “It’s just that the Wings Around the Globe Rally is... it’s incredibly dangerous.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” I said, waving off her concern. “I’ll have to fly across the Himalayas and the Pacific Ocean.”

Eudora's expression grew more serious. "Percy, this is no joke. Scaling the Himalayas and crossing the Pacific are not easy in the slightest, even with your powers. This rally isn't just a race; it's a battle against the elements themselves. And let's not forget the competition. These aren't amateur pilots; they're the crème de la crème of the mortal world.”

Her words sent a shiver down my spine, but I had to keep it together. "I know it's dangerous, but I have to do it. If it's what it takes to get to New Rome, then I'll do it," I said firmly.

She sighed, knowing my mind wouldn’t be changed. “Okay, fine, but just… be careful.”

“I will,” I promised, though I didn’t feel so certain.

Chapter Text

Soon enough, the weekend came, and with it, the time trials for the Wings Around the Globe Rally.

The time trials were upstate near Watkins Glen. When I went out to get my plane, I had a surprise waiting for me.

Annabeth and Grover were there, but also there were Jason, Piper, Leo, Hazel, Frank, Nico, Reyna, and Will.

I grinned. "Hey, guys! What are you doing here?" I asked excitedly.

"Well, to help you, duh," Leo answered with a cheeky grin. "I mean, if I can rebuild a mechanical dragon, I'm pretty sure I can help you with a prop plane."

"And the rest of us are here mostly for moral support," said Frank with a smile.

I chuckled. "Well, thanks guys. We'd better get going."

Nico and Hazel shadow traveled everyone there, while I simply flew my plane. I could vapor travel, but I seriously doubt I could do that with an entire plane.

When we got there, we saw a bunch of different planes: a red tail P-51 Mustang, a Seafury, etc. Then, we saw two people by a big stand. They both had dark hair and green eyes, and were very clearly twins. The both wore name tags that said ‘Ned' and 'Zed'. I remembered them from the footage I'd watched. They were world class racers from New Zealand.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Zed announced. "May we have your attention please? Kindly look up to the heavens above, and give a warm welcome to our special guest."

I looked up and saw a plane flying. It looked very similar in design to a P-51 Mustang. It had a green front and black rear, with black and green checkered patterns in the middle. In orange writing on the side was the number 13. "The prince of propellers!" Ned said.

"When he's speeding, he's leading!" continued Zed.

The plane came near a group of photographers and tilted slightly, as if the pilot was saying, ‘Get my good side, fellas’.

"When he's grinning, he's winning!" Ned exclaimed.

They both announced, "The one and only...!"

The plane landed and the pilot stepped out. "Ripslinger!" he yelled. Like Ned and Zed, he too had dark black hair, and dark green eyes, but he had a bigger build than the other two. Instantly, I also recognized him from the footage.

"Who's that guy?" Hazel asked, tilting her head slightly.

"That's Rick Michael, but he uses the name Ripslinger for competitions,” I said. “He's captain of Team RPX. They call him, 'The Green Tornado'. He's so good, he's prequalified."

"Will all pilots trying out for the Wings Around the Globe Rally please go to the time trial course?" a P.A. announcer asked.

I took a deep breath, and we made our way there.

"Okay, everyone," the announcer said, looking at the pilots gathered around. "This is the last of four time trials being held world-wide. Today's qualifying round is one lap around the pylons. The top five will qualify for the Wings Around the Globe Rally. Our first competitor is Fonzarelli."

A man with a yellow and blue pilot's uniform got into a matching yellow and blue plane, the model being an Extra EA-300. The propeller started and he took off, and passed between two yellow pylons.

"And he's through the start gate," the announcer said. Fonzarelli made a right turn towards two blue pylons, which were followed by a set of red ones. "The racers will pass through the blue pylons on the horizontal, and across the red pylons on the knife edge."

Fonzarelli did just that, before turning around fully and going back towards the blue pylons.

"And he's coming back to gate three!" the announcer exclaimed. "Setting himself up. A little high through the blue pylons there, lining up for the quadro."

Next was a set of four red pylons set up in a bit of an angle, making Fonzarelli turn to enter it. "He's taking a hard right with a 270-degree high G-turn! Back all the way around! Cleanly through!”

"That guy's good," Will remarked breathlessly.

Fonzarelli then turned toward a row of three red pylons. "Lining up for the three pylon chicane," the announcer remarked as the plane slalomed the three pylons. "Amazing pitch control. Smooth, fast, clean." He then turned once more toward another duo of pylons. "He's coming into the final turn, into the half Cuban-8, pulling an aggressive 9.2 Gs."

I had know idea what a half Cuban-8 was until I saw Fonzarelli go up and backwards. "Now that's some speed," the announcer said. Fonzarelli eventually flipped back over and came towards the start gate. "What an end to a fantastic first run, with a time of 1:24.16. Very good time for the other racers to try and beat."

One of the racers, a guy named Gordon, who flew an all red plane with the #15, was going through the chicane. That was, until his engine blew, and he was out.

Another flyer, Maddox, flew into one of the pylons and got a major penalty.

The second to last flyer finished his run. As far as the top five, in first was #17 Yellowbird from the USA with 1:21.48, in second was Tsubasa from Japan with 1:21.49, in third was Arturo from Italy with 1:21.53, in fourth was Joey Dundee from Australia with 1:23.48, and in fifth was Fonzarelli, also from the USA, with the aforementioned time of 1:24:16.

A worker came up to me. "Okay bud, you're up," he said before walking away.

Leo was making sure my plane was ready to fly. He looked at me and gave me a thumbs up. "All set, Percy."

I looked toward the start line and took a deep breath. "This is it," I murmured before walking straight, my plane being pulled by a truck.

"Our last flyer today," the announcer started, "from Manhattan, New York, Percy Jackson!"

I began walking to the start line when the announcer spoke again. "Hey! Kid! Get off the runway! We're racing here!"

I looked up at him. "No-"

"Second call for Percy Jackson-"

“Yo! I’m Percy Jackson!”

The announcer's eyes widened. "You're Percy Jackson?" he asked, wanting clarification, and I nodded my head. "A kid?" He then chuckled. "Man, what's going on here? Are they letting everyone fly today? Your mom must've had high hopes for you."

I growled but continued walking. I saw Ripslinger, Ned, and Zed snickering on the side.

"You're kidding me, that kid's gonna race?" Ripslinger asked with a smirk.

"With a plane that small?" Ned added.

I looked at them, about to go off on them, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw Annabeth with a stern expression. "Don't lower yourself to their level. Go on, Percy."

I sighed but continued. Once the plane was at the start line, I got in, and started it. The propeller began spinning, and began rolling. I pulled up and began flying. I knew it was going to be a tall order to knock Fonzarelli out of fifth place, but I knew that I needed to qualify for the Wings Around the Globe Rally.

I passed the two yellow pylons, and began my run.

I turned hard to the right, and approached the blue pylons I passed through them, and quickly rolled the plane halfway into a knife edge. Following that, I turned back around and headed towards the quadro.

I turned hard between the pylons and began the 270 degree hard right turn, before passing the pylons again, just through another gate. I turned left and approached the three pylon chicane. I hugged them as tight as I could without touching them.

Once through there, I turned left towards the pylons that marked the start of the half Cuban-8. I pulled up hard, the G-forces making me feel weightless as I climbed. Once completely upside down, I rolled back over towards the yellow pylons. I passed them, and ended my run.

I stopped the plane and climbed out.

"Jackson," the announcer boomed. "Official time-1 minute, 24.13 seconds. Fifth place."

My mouth opened in awe, before I had a group of people hugging me. "You did it, Percy!" Grover exclaimed in excitement.

They all pulled back. Jason looked at me with a smile. "That was a heck of a run, Percy," he said.

"Yeah!" Piper cheered. "Woohoo!"

Chapter Text

I stood in the field where my plane was, and just looked at it. I couldn't believe it. I had actually somehow qualified for the Wings Around the Globe Rally.

"Bad idea."

I turned and saw Skipper, along with a guy who Grover had once introduced me to, and I remembered him as Sparky.

"You'll end up a smoking hole on the side of a mountain with your body spread over five countries,” said Skipper.

I straightened up. "What makes you say that?" I asked.

"You're going against the best racers in the world, and some of them don't even finish," Skipper told me bluntly. "You're sloppy on your rolls, wide on your turns, slow on your straightaways."

"You've been watching me?" I asked with a raised eyebrow, tilting my head in confusion.

Skipper let out a sarcastic 'ha', before saying, "Yeah, watching you make a fool out of yourself. You need to be tighter in and out of your knife edge. Any extra control input costs you speed and seconds."

"So, you think I'm overcorrecting?" I asked.

"Absolutely. Rookie mistake."

After a second, I smirked. "Are you giving me pointers?" I asked cheekily.

"What? No! I'm telling you to forget all this racing malarky! You just ain't born for it! You're a demigod and a kid!"

"You don't think I know that? You don't think I know that? I'm the one that's been saving the world, day after day, month after month, for years! And now, when I'm this close to going to college with Annabeth, I have to do two new quests! So I have to do this, whether I was born for it or not!"

For a few moments, neither of us spoke. I was slightly panting from my rant, and Skipper looked as stern as ever. Then, he spoke.

"0500 tomorrow, don't be late," he said, before turning around.

"0500?" I asked.

Sparky smiled. "Yeah. 5 a.m.," he told me, and I smiled back.

Chapter Text

By 5 a.m. the next morning (which was Sunday), I was already flying. Skipper, Annabeth, Grover, and Sparky were all on the ground with radios to me.

"Okay, Percy, remember this: it ain't how fast you fly, it's how you fly fast," Skipper told me.

"Got it," I replied.

"Show me what you got," Skipper said. I did so, going up and down over some trees. "Great," Skipper remarked, sounding unimpressed. "You can go up and down. What else? Let me see your turns."

I turned the plane, but Skipper said, "You think that was good? That stunk." I saw some trees in front of me. "Knife edge those elm trees," he told me, but I was already too far past them to do so. "Come on! What are you doing?"

After a moment, Skipper asked, "You want speed, right?"

"Yeah," I replied.

"Serious, bone rattling speed?"

"Oh, yeah!"

"Then look up," Skipper instructed, which I did, and my eyes widened. I saw a bunch of long, thin clouds that were in neat rows. "See those clouds?" Skipper asked. "The highway in the sky. Tailwinds like nothing you've ever flown."

I hesitated and groaned sheepishly. "What are you waiting for?" Skipper asked, and I pulled up.

"Come on, power up," Skipper told me. "Firewall thrust. Max torque! Max torque! All right, looking good."

I then looked below me, and saw the clouds swirling into a funnel-like thing, and I began hyperventilating.

"Hold V-Y, Percy. Max rate, now," Skipper continued telling me. "Your nose is too high. Get your nose down. You're going to stall! Ease off the pitch! Nose down!"

I turned back down.

"Hey!" Skipper yelled. "What are you doing?"

Once I was back on the ground and out of my plane, I began shaking off my nerves, but Skipper, Sparky, Annabeth, and Grover all walked up to me. Skipper's expression was not happy.

"What just happened out there?" he asked, stern.

"Uhm, I'm... I was low on fuel-"

"Do I look like I was born yesterday?" Skipper asked.

"No, it's just..." I tried to find the right words. "It's a long story."

"I got time," Skipper told me, and I internally cursed.

"Um... okay, well, um, you know, I feel like I was having some problems with my axial compressor, so-“

“The Rogers have a motto: ‘Volo Pro Veritate'," Skipper informed me. "It means, 'I Fly For Truth'. Clearly, you don't."

Him and Sparky turned and began walking, and then I cracked.

“I'm afraid of heights!" I confessed.

Skipper and Sparky abruptly stopped and turned back around, and Annabeth and Grover's mouths were open in surprise.

"But... we flew in the Argo II,” Annabeth reminded me.

"That was different," I replied. "We didn't go over 1000 feet. I'm a son of Poseidon. I'm not supposed to fly at all."

"Are you kidding me?" Skipper asked, annoyed. "Scared of heights, and you're going to race around the world?"

"Um, Skip," Sparky spoke up. "During the Battle of Dutch Harbor, even the pilots of the P-38s had trouble at high altitudes.”

"Well they didn't have to fly over the Himalayas," Skipper retorted.

"I mean," I began, "I'll still be high up, just... lower to the ground."

"Ooo, and after the war, those P-38s went on to win races!" Sparky said excitedly.

"Really?" Annabeth asked, and I chuckled. She always wanted to learn more about anything. "Is that true?"

"Yeah, it's true!" Sparky confirmed. "Like in the Cleveland race in '46! Oh, wait! It gets better! In '49, the P-38 Sky Ranger averaged 337 miles per hour!”

"337?"

"Well, actually 337.4, but they rounded it down in the record books," Sparky continued.

"Why would they do that?" Grover asked.

"I guess some people just have no respect for decimal points," Annabeth spat.

"All right! All right!" Skipper interjected, before looking back at me. "So, you're a flat-hatter? We'll work on that. But for now, let's see if we can turn low and sloppy into low and fast.”

I smirked. "Roger that."

Chapter Text

The next day, after school, I was in Skipper's airplane hangar house, Annabeth and Grover on either side of me. Skipper and Sparky were in front of us with an artist easel thing with a bunch of papers on it.

"It'll go like this," Skipper said as Sparky pointed to the papers. "The flag marks the start line. Across the field, three silos are waiting for you. Slalom those with a radial-g pass."

"A radial what pass-?"

"Once you get to the trees, go to your optimal rate of climb, about 500 feet. Roll inverted, and extend, creating altitude for airspeed, and dive towards the finish line at the water tower. Put all that together, you might just have a chance to beat him," Skipper told me.

"Who am I racing?" I asked

——

"Here he comes," Skipper radioed to me as I flew. I looked up and saw a plane very high above me. "He's a twin commuter pushing about 1500 horsepower."

"Uh, he's pretty high up," I told him nervously.

"You're not racing him," Skipper told me. "You're racing his shadow. Beat him to the water tower!"

As if on cue, the shadow of the plane passed by me. I picked up the speed and passed the flag that Skipper had said started the course.

"Let's do this!" Annabeth encouraged.

I approached the silos and began a radial-g pass around the first one, but I was really wide in the turns and got around two before I switched directions. "Lean into your turns more!" Skipper yelled. As I approached the trees, Skipper said, "Let's go, Percy. You're falling behind. Begin your climb and catch him in the dive."

I pulled up when I reached the trees, but Skipper said, "Never mind. You already lost," and I groaned in defeat.

Leo came up from Camp Half-Blood and increased the torque of my plane.

We continued practicing after school for the rest of the week. Skipper's words repeated in my head. 'Altitude for airspeed'. 'Gravity is your ally'. 'Laws of physics govern speed'.

On Thursday, as I approached the flag, Skipper told me, "Alright, Percy. Give this run all you've got!"

I passed the flag and approached the silos. I pulled up and went to the left of the first, hugging the side of it. 'Use your radial-g', Skipper had told me. 'Let gravity work for you'. I got around the first, and slalomed to the right of the second, and then back to the left to go around the third.

Once straightened out, I punched the throttle, quickly approaching the trees. I pulled up, and once at 500 feet, I rolled back down, gaining a ton of speed. I rolled back over, and quickly approached the shadow of the other plane, and then... I passed it, just before reaching the water tower.

"Ballistic!" Grover exclaimed over the radio.

"He kicked Aston Martins out there!" Sparky commented.

Later in the day, Sparky had a spray paint template against the side of my plane, and Annabeth was sewing something onto my uniform. Sparky lifted some black spray paint and sprayed it across the template, before removing it to reveal the skull and crossbones.

"Woah," I breathed out. "The skull and crossbones." I looked at Skipper. "Your squadron insignia."

"You've earned it," he told me with a small smile.

Annabeth finished sewing and lifted my uniform to reveal that it had been sewn onto the right sleeve of my uniform. "It fits you," she told me with a proud smile.

Skipper then said, "Now, when the race starts and all the other competitors take off, it'll start up a bunch of swirlies, just like the Rogers ran into in the Battle of Midway."

"What are swirlies?" I asked.

"Swirlies is another word for the wake turbulence that planes experience," Annabeth explained. "They make you unstable."

Annabeth grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, before drawing a horizontal line, and then creating a slanted bubble sort of thing on top, with the right side of it higher up before it slanted down to the left. "This is your wing," she began. "How the air is supposed to work is that it curves around the top slanted bit, kind of like the spoiler on a car. Meanwhile, the air below the wing keeps the plane in the air."

"So, how do swirlies work?" I asked, still a little confused.

Annabeth then proceeded to draw a bunch of loop scribbles in front of the wing.

"Those," she said, "are swirlies. Basically, the propellers from the other planes create a bunch of air that makes the air behind them become unstable."

"It's properly known as wake turbulence," Skipper said, "but in the Navy, we used 'swirlies’ as a slang term for it."

"Roger that," I said, looking back at Skipper with a smile. “‘Volo Pro Veritate', right?"

"’Volo Pro Veritate'," Skipper confirmed.

"Kick some butt, Percy!" Grover encouraged with a grin that went from ear-to-ear.

"Woohoo!" Sparky cheered. "Perc-meister!"

Annabeth walked up to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. She pulled back and looked at me with a soft smile. "I'm so proud of you."

Chapter Text

I was both glad and apprehensive when the school day ended on Friday. On the one hand, that meant it was time for a 2 week Thanksgiving break. On the other hand, it meant that in just one day, I would begin competing in the Wings Around the Globe Rally.

That night, I took my plane and flew from the field we'd been training in just outside of Manhattan, to JFK Airport in Queens. I know, such a long flight.

Anyway, I took my number 7 orange, white, and blue Air Tractor AT-802 and flew to JFK Airport. As I approached the airport, someone came over the radio. "Air racer number 7, Air racer number 7. Do you read? Kennedy approach, over."

"Um... I-Im Percy Jackson. I'm looking for JFK Airport."

The man came back on the radio and said rather quickly, "Jackson 7, you are supposed to be on the Carnice Visual. Turn further left, heading 1-9-5. Maintain 1,000 feet. Intercept the 22 right vocalizer. You are cleared for the ILS 22, right approach. Heavy is sectored in behind you."

“Umm… run that by me one more time,” I requested, trying to keep the confusion out of my voice.

“Turn further left, heading 1-9-5. Maintain 1,000–”

“Nevermind. I got it,” I said when I spotted the airport's runway lights.

I parked my plane, got out, and walked to pit road. When I got there, I saw a bunch of booths for each racer. I counted 21 booths, including my own. I began walking to mine, but stopped by one of the booths, recognizing someone from the videos me, Grover, and Annabeth had watched.

"Woah! James 'Bulldog' Harondale? From the European Cup? 'The Big Dog'!" I asked the man.

He was quite a bit older than me, in his late thirties or early forties, with brown eyes and slightly graying brown hair. He wore his pilot's uniform, which was in a pattern based on the Union Jack flag, and had a number 11 on the left of his chest.

"Hey, I saw you do this unbelievable high-g vertical turn,” I continued. “How did you do that?"

"Well, let me tell you," he responded. "In fact, why don't I tell you all my racing secrets?"

"Really?" I asked hopefully.

"No," he responded. "Look, I don't know how things work in the backwaters where you come from, matey, but this a competition. Every pilot for themselves. Good bye."

"Umm..." I trailed off. "Okay."

I began walking away, but I ran into someone and fell to the ground. I then saw a hand reaching down to me. I looked up and saw a woman.

She looked relatively young, probably in her early twenties. Her skin was a light brown, like that of someone who had spent her life in the sun. Her eyes were the same green as an emerald, sparkling with a hint of mischief and a touch of kindness. Her brown hair was braided, cascading down her back. She was dressed in a pilot’s uniform that was a work of art in itself: the top half a brilliant yellow that faded into a fiery red, with intricate patterns of green, purple, and white swirling across the fabric as if painted by the hand of a master artist. On her chest was the number 6, standing out boldly.

"Are you alright?" she asked with a soft smile.

“Uhh, y-yeah,” I stuttered, taking her hand and getting to my feet. "Wait, are you Pan-Asian Champion and Mumbai Cup record holder, Ishani Roddar?"

She chuckled lightly. "Most people call me just Ishani," she told me. "And who might you be?"

"I'm P-Percy,” I managed to get out, trying to play it cool despite my racing heart. “Percy Jackson.”

"Well," she began, "it was very nice to meet you, Percy."

She walked away, and I smiled again, before I continued walking.

I walked all the way to the back where a big stage was. I saw Ripslinger on it, and he apparently saw me. "Hey, look who made it!" he said. "You know, having you here is a good people-interest story. '17 year old kid makes it to the big times'!"

I smiled. "Thanks-"

"’And tragically crashes on take off’," Ripslinger continued,

"Wait, what?!"

“'Champion Ripslinger eulogizes that kid by spreading his ashes over the ocean'. Ratings will be through the roof!" he exclaimed.

I decided I'd had enough, and turned and began walking away before I heard a voice coming from the other side of the pits.

I looked and saw a man.

He wore a predominantly red pilot's uniform with white and green accents, and a green mask that covered the top part of his face, as if he’d decided to cosplay as a pilot-wrestler hybrid. He also wore a green cape that billowed dramatically in the nighttime breeze, and his brown eyes gleamed with a mix of excitement and challenge. He had a skin tone very similar to Leo and Reyna’s, which made me guess that he was of Hispanic descent. A white number 5 was boldly stitched onto his chest, standing out against the vivid red.

“Senors and senoritas!” the man announced dramatically. “The hero of the people has arrived," and then laughed.

Everyone was silent.

"You have never heard of the great El Chupacabra?" he asked.

"Isn't that a monster that sucks the blood of goats?" asked another pilot.

El Chupacabra chuckled. "No, no, it's just a stage name, designed to strike fear into the hearts of my opponents."

"Yeah," I said. "He's the indoor racing champion of all Mexico."

"Indoor racing?" Bulldog asked skeptically.

El Chupacabra whooped, before adding, "And numero uno recording artist, telenovela star, and romance novelist."

"Did you say, 'El Chupacabra', or 'El Coo-coocabra'?" asked Bulldog, and a bunch of people laughed.

El Chupacabra got right in Bulldog's face. "You make joke? You make joke?! Very well. You leave me no choice. I…" He turned his back to Bulldog, making his cape swish. "…swish my cape at you! You have been shamed," El Chupacabra said before walking away.

Bulldog's face fell. "I hope I can get over it," he said sorrowfully, before suddenly perking up. "Oh! I just did!"

I sped up until I was right beside El Chupacabra. "Hey, I saw you race on telemundo. Of course, it was in Spanish, so I didn't understand everything."

"I am flattered, avión pequeño," he told me. "You have done many of these long distance rallies, yes?"

I shook my head. "Nope. This is my first one."

He stopped and looked at me with a grin. "It is my first time as well!" he exclaimed. "We will have many adventures together! We will laugh, we will cry, we will dance!"

I raised an eyebrow. "Umm..."

"Not with each other," he clarified. "I shall see you in the skies, amigo.”

With a final ‘whoop’, he disappeared as dramatically as he had arrived.

Chapter Text

That night, I stayed in a hotel room near the airport that the WATGR committee had reserved for me near the airport. The bed was as soft as a cloud, but my nerves were anything but, making it difficult to get any rest. The race was only a few hours away, and I couldn't help but run through the various scenarios that could unfold tomorrow. The walls felt like they were closing in, and every sound was amplified.

Suddenly, a flash of golden light filled the hotel room, and there he was—Hermes. He looked at me sitting on the edge of the bed, my nerves as tangled as the laces on his winged sandals. His expression was one of nervousness and apprehension.

"Percy," he began, his voice tinged with urgency, "I know you're nervous, but there’s a… stipulation for you to compete."

My heart sank. "What kind of stipulation?"

Hermes shifted his weight, his sandals squeaking against the floor. "Well, you see, the Wings Around the Globe Rally... it involves flying over vast stretches of water. And, as a son of Poseidon, your powers could give you an, uh, unfair advantage. So, you… kinda have to give them up.”

I stared at him, trying to process what he was saying. Give up my powers? That was like asking a fish to swim without water. “But, Hermes, what happens if I get into trouble over the Pacific Ocean?”

“Look, cous’,” Hermes said, “I wish this wasn’t the case, but the Olympian Council’s ruling is clear. No demigod powers allowed during the rally. If you want that recommendation letter for college, you’ve got to level the playing field. Here, drink this.”

He snapped his fingers, and a small vial filled with a swirling blue liquid appeared in his palm. “It’ll remove your powers until you cross the finish line back at JFK Airport.”

I took the vial with a trembling hand, feeling the weight of the decision. Give up my powers to compete in a race that could end my life? Or refuse and lose my shot at going to college with Annabeth? I studied the potion, the blue liquid seeming to pulse with the heartbeat of the sea itself.

With a deep breath, I uncorked the vial and downed its contents. The taste was like a mouthful of ocean brine, but the effect was instantaneous. My body felt lighter, my senses dimmer. The constant whisper of the sea that I’d grown up with was gone.

“Thanks, Hermes,” I muttered, trying not to sound bitter.

He nodded sympathetically. “Good luck, Percy.” And with a flash, he was gone.

Chapter Text

I stood in the waiting room for the competitors, watching the TV coverage of the event as we waited to start the race.

"Race fans, it's that time of year again. Welcome to the Wings Around the Globe. Hello, I'm Brent Musburger, and this is the flagship event of the world's fastest sport, where only the best of the best compete. Each leg brings a new challenge, testing agility, navigation, and endurance. But when it's all said and done, speed is the name of the game."

The screen split to show a man in a blimp. "Our very own Colin Cowling is standing by live from JFK Airport with the best seat in the house. How's the view, big guy?"

"Brent, the scene below me is absolutely electric," Colin responded. "As you know, we have racers from all over the world here, but the real story should be who's coming in second behind three time defending champ, Ripslinger, who's looking to become the first four time winner in the Wings Around the Globe."

“That's right, but there's another notable storyline for this running of the Wings Around the Globe,” Brent began. “Racer number 7, Perseus 'Percy' Jackson, who at age 17, is the youngest ever participant in the history of the Wings Around the Globe, being the first ever competitor under the age of 21.”

"Racers!" a voice bellowed over the P.A. System. "Make your way to the runway!"

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. I shouldn't have been nervous. I've faced Ares, Kronos, Gaea, Akhlys, Hyperion, and more monsters than I can count. I'd been on way more dangerous quests before, and fought in two wars that decided the fate of the world. Flying a plane around the world should've seemed like child's play compared to that.

But all the same, I was nervous. Flying in a global air racing event had way more different challenges than fighting monsters, ones that I was not used to.

But I managed to get past my nerves and stood up, and followed the other competitors into a tunnel, kind of like the ones football players come out of before games.

The starting order was as follows:
1. Ripslinger #13 USA
2. Zed #00 New Zealand
3. Ned #0 New Zealand
4. Joey Dundee #9 Australia
5. Gunnar Viking #12 Sweden
6. Little King #14 Ireland
7. Yellow Bird #17 USA
8. Tsubasa #23 Japan
9. Jan Kowalski #15 Poland
10. Veichi #1 Turkey
11. Miguel #16 Brazil
12. Ishani #6 India
13. Arturo #3 Italy
14. Bulldog #11 United Kingdom
15. Antonio #47 Spain
16. Sun Wing #8 China
17. Van Der Bird #55 Netherlands
18. Kolya Ivanov #19 Russia
19. Rochelle #22 Canada
20. El Chu #5 Mexico
21. Me #7 USA.

As we neared the end of the tunnel, I heard Brent Musburger's voice. "One-hundred and thirty-six nations compete. Twenty one pilots selected. Folks, a step onto this runway, is a step into history."

And then, we exited the tunnel.

The grandstands stretched out before us, a sea of faces, flags, and flashing cameras. The crowd was a blur of colors and movement, and the sound of their collective cheers was like the roar of a thousand waves crashing into the shore. Jets streaked across the sky, leaving trails of red, white, and blue smoke in their wake, painting the atmosphere with patriotic fervor. Confetti littered the runway, sparkling in the sunlight like a celebratory snowstorm. I couldn’t help but murmur, “Holy smokes.”

El Chupacabra was right beside me, waving at the fans. "This is incredible," I told him.

"Stay focused amigo. Don't let anything distract you-" he said, before looking at someone.

I followed his gaze and saw a woman. Her hair was the color of rich, dark chocolate, cascading over the shoulders of her pilot's uniform. It was predominantly pink, with accents of white, purple, and red that danced around the edges like a vibrant aurora borealis. The maple leaf and number 22 on her chest stood out proudly.

"Who is that vision?" El Chupacabra asked.

"Um, I think that's Rochelle Tribou," I told him. "The Canadian rally champ."

"She is like an angel," El Chu said. “Like a sunrise after a lifetime of darkness."

"Like fresh fertilizer on a field of dying grass," I added, but El Chu just looked at me with a confused look.

"This is not your thing, my friend," he told me.

"Racers! Please get into your plane!" a man announced, and we did so.

Then, another man went onto a stage and yelled, "Start your engines!"

The roar of the planes drowned out everything. The ground trembled beneath my landing gear as the propellers began to spin and the engines growled to life, each machine a metal beast eager to conquer the skies. The confetti that laid on the tarmac was now being blown away by the sheer force of the propellers. The smell of aviation fuel was strong in the air, mixing with the faint scent of popcorn from the nearby concession stands.

Even with all the noise, Brent Musburger’s voice boomed through the air, broadcasting to millions around the globe. “Seven legs, over 31,000 kilometers. The world's highest mountains and the deepest oceans all stand before them, just waiting to be conquered by the right competitor." His words echoed in the vast space around the runway, as if the very air was holding its breath in anticipation.

A man walked onto a ledge in front of the grandstands, holding a green flag at his side.

Brent continued, "All the anticipation, all the training, all the preparation, it all comes down to this moment. One of these pilots is about to fly off into the pages of sports history and become a champion!"

I look a deep breath as the starter lifted the green flag. This was it. I was about to start my most unique quest yet.

The green flag dropped.

Everyone began moving.

And we were underway.

The planes in front of me shot into the sky like rockets, leaving a trail of sound and dust. I throttled up, feeling the power of my engine roar beneath me as I began to gain speed. But as we approached the end of the runway, something went wrong. The wind buffeted my plane like a leaf in a hurricane, and I realized the mistake I’d made. Starting at the back, I was now caught in the turbulence of two dozen other aircraft racing ahead of me.

My plane began wobbling. “Woah, swirlies!” I exclaimed. Instead of flying high, I found myself dropping towards the sea. The turbulence from the other racers was like a tornado of air, and I was the tiny piece of paper thrown into it. But I had to keep going.

The first leg was a dead sprint across the North Atlantic to Reykjavik, Iceland. In the Wings Around the Globe Rally, the winner of a leg would be the first to take off for the next one, followed by the second and then the third with roughly one minute intervals, meaning if you finished last, you'd start the next leg last.

Anyway, I stayed close to the sea. However, the air began to get colder. As I went farther, I saw my wings beginning to freeze. I looked back at my tail wing and saw icicles begin forming on it.

I looked back straight ahead and noticed a ten story iceberg coming straight for me, and I just barely managed to turn and avoid it.

Yup, this was definitely going to be a trip.

Chapter Text

After what felt like an eternity, I touched down in Iceland. All the racers were staying in a hotel before the leg to Munich, Germany the next day.

I walked into the lobby, shivering and chattering. Pretty much all of the racers looked at me with surprised expressions, as if they hadn’t expected me to even finish the leg.

I walked past Ripslinger, Ned, and Zed, who all were sitting by a fire pit, drinking hot chocolate. They looked at me and all three of them smirked.

“Hey, look who’s finally here!” Ned called out, not bothering to hide his smugness. “It’s that low flying high school kid!”

“You do know this is a race, right?” Ripslinger added with a sneer, his eyes glinting with amusement at my disheveled state.

Ned and Zed laughed. “That’s a good one, boss,” Zed said.

I walked to the counter, grabbed the key to my room, and made my way up the stairs to it.

Once inside, I heard the voice of a certain son of Hephaestus coming from my radio. "This is New York to Percy Jackson."

I sat down at the radio and said, "I read you, Leo. Who's all there?"

"Me, Annabeth, Grover, Jason, Piper, Hazel, Frank, Sparky, Skipper, Nico, Reyna, and Will," he responded.

"What's it like racing an airplane?" Jason asked.

"Well, my wings froze solid, I had icicles hanging off my tail wing, and I nearly ran into a ten story iceberg," I listed.

"Awesome!" Leo exclaimed.

“Yeah, 'awesome' is not quite the word that I would use to describe a gruesome near-death experience," I replied snarkily.

"Percy," I heard Skipper begin, "just like when the Rogers were up in the Aleutians, the air down close to the sea has more moisture, which is why you took on ice. You need to fly higher."

"Great," I groaned.

"The good news is," Skipper added, "tomorrow's leg goes through the Bavarian obstacle course. It's all about agility, so it's your chance to move up. And remember, it's not speed that wins races, it's skill."

The advice lingered in my mind as I tried to warm up with a hot shower. When I finished my shower, I changed into some clothes to sleep in.

I felt like I was way in over my head. I’d never flown a plane until two weeks ago, and now I had to compete in an air racing event where I had to fly over the biggest mountain range and ocean in the world without my godly powers? I mean, what shot did I have?

But I had to do this to get into college with Annabeth. I had to get that recommendation letter, and if flying around the world was what it took, then so be it.

Chapter Text

The next morning, all the racers got ready for the next leg. The order was as follows:

1. Ripslinger #13—United States
2. Bulldog #11–United Kingdom
3. El Chu #5–Mexico
4. Ned #0–New Zealand
5. Zed #00–New Zealand
6. Gunnar Viking #12–Sweden
7. Joey Dundee #9–Australia
8. Jan Kowalski #15–Poland
9. Rochelle #22–Canada
10. Antonio #47–Spain
11. Tsubasa #23–Japan
12. Ishani #6–India
13. Arturo #3–Italy
14. Sun Wing #8–China
15. Kolya Ivanov #19–Russia
16. Van Der Bird #55–Netherlands
17. Miguel #16–Brazil
18. Veichi #1–Turkey
19. Little King #14–Ireland
20. Yellow Bird #17–United States
21. Me #7–United States

Yeah, I was dead last, but Skipper had a point. The next leg was predominantly agility based when we reached Bavaria, and Skipper had trained me in being agile while flying, so I hoped I had a shot to move my way through the field.

Anyway, back to the race. I took off after everyone else had already taken off, as I finished last the previous leg. As the crow flies, the route from Reykjavik to Munich was about 1660 miles, and since the obstacle course was only in when we reached Bavaria, it meant that for a majority of it, it was a straight shot where agility wouldn’t help me.

When I took off, I punched the throttle. The other racers were high above the clouds, and since I was afraid of heights, I just hugged the ocean. All I needed to do was stay close to them until we reached Bavaria.

Before long, we reached Bavaria. The other racers migrated down as we approached the first set of pylons that made up the obstacle course.

I slowly and methodically picked off the next racers, until by the time we were just outside Munich at night, I was right behind Bulldog.

But then, as we flew passed the end of a cliff, Bulldog suddenly did a half barrel roll and began plummeting towards the Earth. My heart stopped for a beat before I realized I had to do something.

Once alongside Bulldog, I saw that one of his propellers was sputtering oil, and his canopy was completely covered in oil, making it impossible for him to see me, or anything for that matter.

Immediately, I flipped the switch to Bulldog’s radio frequency. I was able to do that because each plane in this rally had a radio that could communicate with each other or the officials.

“Bulldog, apply your left aileron!” I shouted over the radio. He rolled his plane to the left, returning to being right side up. “Stop roll!”

I looked in front of us, and my heart nearly stopped. The moonlit river below was rushing under a bridge that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale, its arches tall and pointed. “Pull up! Harder! Harder!” I screamed into the radio. Bulldog’s plane wobbled but started to ascend. We shot through the night sky like a meteor, the bridge racing closer with each frantic beat of my heart.

But it wasn’t enough. The bridge was upon us, and Bulldog’s plane was still too low. “Side roll right!” I yelled, the words echoing in the cold, thin air. The world tilted, and the metal beams flashed past us so close I could almost feel the vibrations of the cars crossing the bridge. We were under it. “Good!” A collective sigh of relief washed over the radio, but it was short-lived.

A castle emerged out of the night ahead, its towers stark and unforgiving against the moonlit sky. “Woah! Big castle! Pull up! Hard roll right!” The words barely had time to leave my mouth before we were hurtling towards it. Bulldog’s plane responded, twisting and turning as if it were a bird dodging the talons of an angry eagle. We skimmed the turrets, the stone so close I could almost count the bricks, and then we were through. The castle's shadow fell away behind us, and the racers ahead grew smaller as we gained altitude.

I heard Bulldog over the radio, his voice strained with panic. "Are you still there?!"

"I’m right here!" I shouted back, trying to keep the fear out of my own voice as I focused on guiding him through the treacherous obstacle course. "I’ll fly right alongside you!"

The crowd watched us flying through the nighttime Munich sky, their expressions those of fright and horror as we zigzagged our way to the runway.

Once we were approaching the runway, I told Bulldog, “Add power. Easy now. Good. Flaps down, lock them,” and Bulldog did so. “Landing gear down.”

“Yeah, and locked,” Bulldog grunted, his voice tight with tension.

“Begin your flare. Power back a little,” I said, and Bulldog began lowering and slowing down. And then…

“Touchdown!” I said. “Nicely done!”

Bulldog's plane bumped along the runway, the sound of the wheels echoing through the quiet night. He taxied to a stop and turned his aircraft around, the propellers still spinning. For a moment, I thought he was just being a show-off, but then I realized he wanted to face me. The engines grew quieter as he parked his plane, and I climbed out of my own plane, feeling a mix of relief and pride at having helped him.

The wind whipped around us as he popped open his cockpit roof. "Thanks for your help, matey," he called out, his British accent thick with gratitude. "I couldn't have done it without..."

His words trailed off as he saw me standing there. Recognition dawned on his face, and the gratitude morphed into disbelief and anger. "You?!" he yelled. "You saved me?! What did I tell you, boy?! Every pilot for himself, right?!"

“Well, where I come from,” I began, “if you see someone falling from the sky—”

“Yes, but this is a competition, and now you’re dead last!” he shouted back.

But as I looked closer at him, something changed in his expression. His eyes watered slightly, and his voice wavered. "And I owe you my life," he managed to say.

“Are you crying?” I asked.

“I don't cry, I'm British!” he retorted.

But I wasn’t fooled. I saw his eyes glisten with unshed tears, the tremble in his bottom lip, and him sniffling his nose. "Thanks, matey," he said, his voice thick with something other than the usual bravado.

I smiled softly. “Sure thing, Bulldog.”

Then, reporters swarmed Bulldog, and I stepped back.

Then, I heard a voice behind me. “Well, I gotta say, Jackson.” I turned to see Ripslinger, along with Ned, and Zed approaching, grinning smugly. “You’re a nice guy.”

“Umm, thanks—”

“And we all know where nice guys finish,” Ripslinger said, cutting me off, before the three left, and I scowled.

That night, I was at a bar. “Dead last,” I said to myself, finishing Ripslinger’s sentence from earlier as I drank a Coca-Cola.

“At least you’re not last in the race for love,” I heard El Chu sigh beside me.

“Rochelle?” I guessed, looking over at him.

El Chu nodded. “Her passion is, sadly, not for me,” he said, before beginning to sob softly.

“Tough break, El Chu,” I said, patting his shoulder.

I made my way back to the hotel, feeling a mix of pride for my flying and frustration for finishing last again. It felt like the Fates were playing with me, throwing obstacle after obstacle in my way. I mean, in the first leg, I finished last because of the swirlies incident, and now, I'd done it because I had to save Bulldog.

But then, I thought of something, something that could maybe make me faster. I ran off to the hangar where my plane was.

When I got there, I noticed the sprayer that was attached to the underside of the plane. A sprayer? It didn't make sense for a racing plane. I assumed it was only on there because the plane itself was a crop duster, and so it was necessary to keep the dust off of the crops. But I was using it to race. And so, I enacted my idea.

I grabbed the tools, a German maintenance guide, and a translation book from a nearby library, feeling a sudden surge of determination. The hangar was cold and quiet, the perfect setting for a clandestine operation. I flipped open the guide and started scanning for anything that might give me an edge. The instructions were all in German, but with the help of the translation book, I managed to piece together the basics of the sprayer mechanism. And, more importantly, how to take it off.

The sprayer was bulky and heavy, designed for a different purpose than speed. It had to go. After a few tense moments, I managed to unscrew and detach the whole system from the belly of the plane. Luckily, there was no rule in the Wings Around the Globe Rally that prohibited modifications. I had a hunch it would make a difference. And it better.

Chapter Text

The next morning, I woke up, and I was a little nervous for the next leg. It was from Munich to Agra, India, and it was the second longest of the rally, being about 3,780 miles as the crow flies.

However, I actually had a bit of an advantage. The good news was that this leg had a hard ceiling of 1,000 feet. In other words, no one could fly higher than that, which meant that everyone would be flying as low as me and couldn’t just leave me in the dust.

The running order was this:
1. Ripslinger #13–United States
2. El Chu #5–Mexico
3. Zed #00–New Zealand
4. Ishani #6–India
5. Rochelle #22–Canada
6. Little King #14–Ireland
7. Sun Wing #8–China
8. Miguel #16–Brazil
9. Arturo #3–Italy
10. Kolya Ivanov #19–Russia
11. Yellow Bird #17–United States
12. Joey Dundee #9–Australia
13. Antonio #47–Spain
14. Gunnar Viking #12–Sweden
15. Veichi #1–Turkey
16. Jan Kowalski #15–Poland
17. Van Der Bird #55–Netherlands
18. Ned #0–New Zealand
19. Tsubasa #23–Japan
20. Bulldog #11–United Kingdom
21. Me #7–United States.

I knew that I had to play catch-up again, but now with my sprayer removed, me starting to get the hang of flying in this global race, and me starting to get used to not having my powers, I felt a bit more optimistic.

Once again, I started last, but I didn’t let that stop me. As we crossed over the Black Sea, I saw one of the other flyers (who I recognized as Joey Dundee) spewing black smoke, and having to bow out. But I was now was in 20th.

Soon, we approached a series of very tall rock mountains that were as high as us, which signaled the start of the area with the 1,000 feet ceiling. And I knew this was my time.

I made up the ground, my newfound speed surprising even myself. The wind felt cleaner without the sprayer weighing me down. Before I knew it, I was flying alongside Tsubasa, who, since Bulldog had quickly worked his way back up through the field, was now the racer in 19th.

He looked over at me with a surprised expression, his plane's dark blue design a stark contrast against the light sky. I made my way around him and was soon zooming past the next few racers, feeling the wind against my cock as the thrill of the race began to pulse through me like a heartbeat.

Soon, I was in 16th, closing in on Gunnar Viking. He was a formidable opponent, his sleek yellow plane cutting through the air like a Viking ship slicing through the sea. As I approached, I noticed something strange—his aircraft was ascending, reaching for the clouds. I knew the rules: stay under 1,000 feet. Apparently, Gunnar had forgotten that.

Then, over my radio, I heard an official voice. "Number 12 is disqualified.”

While I did feel bad for Gunnar since it’d simply been an accident, I couldn’t ignore the fact that I was now in 15th place and gaining on the others. The mountains grew closer, their jagged peaks poking holes in the horizon like teeth in a dragon’s mouth.

I saw that Yellow Bird, Kolya, and Arturo were all sort of packed together, like a flock of birds deciding which way to turn. They had no idea I was coming for them.

With a grin that stretched from ear to ear, I pushed the throttle and went for Yellow Bird. I remembered the moves Skipper had taught me, and this was the moment to use them. The sky was my playground, and I was about to show them what a 17 year old New York City boy could do in the skies against the best. I swooped up, the wind singing past my wings, and went for a radial-g pass—a high-speed, high-g maneuver that would leave anyone in my wake gaping.

Yellow Bird’s eyes widened in his mirror as I shot up, my plane's nose pointing directly at his tail. At the last possible second, I pulled out, the G-force pushing me into my seat like a giant’s hand. The air roared around me as I shot past, my wings slicing through the air so close to his plane that I could see the surprised look on his face.

Yellow Bird’s plane wobbled, and for a moment, I thought I’d overcooked it, that I’d taken him down with me. But he was a good pilot, and he managed to right himself, though not without dropping back a bit in the pack.

Now, it was Kolya’s turn. The burly Russian’s eyes grew as wide as the Siberian steppes when he caught sight of me in his mirror. He tried to swerve away, but my reflexes were sharper. I shot past him like a torpedo, the roar of my engine echoing off the rocky cliffs around us.

As I leveled out, I saw Kolya’s plane wobble, a smear of sweat on his forehead. He had the grace of a bear on a skateboard, which was surprising, considering he was a Russian pilot. But fear has a way of making even the most seasoned flyers look like rookies.

Finally, as I ran in 8th place, the sprawling landscape of Agra stretched out before me, the gleaming Taj Mahal shimmering like a mirage in the early dawn light. My heart raced as the wheels of my trusty plane touched down on the dusty runway, and the engines roared as I brought her to a stop. As I climbed out of the cockpit, feeling the sting of victory in the air, I noticed a large group of reporters had already gathered around the first-place finisher, Ripslinger, and I couldn’t help but listen in.

“Mr. Ripslinger, you’ve been racing and winning for a decade,” a female reporter said.

Ripslinger smiled smugly and replied, “Yeah! You know it.”

“So how can a 17 year old rookie outfly you?” the reporter asked.

Ripslinger’s expression turned to one of shock. “Wait, what?”

“There he is!” another reporter shouted, pointing at me.

Suddenly, I had a swarm of reporters surrounding me.

“How do you keep up with the pros?” one of the reporters asked.

“Why do you fly so low?” another journalist questioned.

“How can a 17 year old like you manage to fly so well?” another journalist inquired.

“Percy, Percy, where did you learn to race?” one reporter shouted over the din, a microphone pointed at my face.

“Umm, from my coach, Skipper. He's the reason I'm even here. He's an amazing instructor, and a great friend. He flew dozens of missions all around the world. And I'm sure, if he could, he'd be with us right now,” I replied, trying to keep my cool amidst the flurry of questions.

As the reporters scribbled notes and took photos, I slipped away.

Chapter Text

The hotel was a welcome retreat from the chaos of the airfield. The cool, dimly lit corridor felt like a quiet sanctuary as I made my way to my room, the plush carpet underfoot muffling the sound of my footsteps. But as I turned the corner, I heard the unmistakable voices of Ripslinger, Ned, and Zed. Curiosity piqued, I ducked behind a potted plant, its lush leaves whispering secrets of the conversations that took place here.

"Why are they wasting their time with him?" Ripslinger groused, his voice echoing off the marble walls. "He's a high schooler with a pilot's license!"

"Actually," Ned said, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed with a small smile, "it's a really compelling underdog story. It's like Rocky."

“It’s more like David and Goliath,” Zed interjected, his voice filled with a hint of amusement.

“Or Old Yeller,” Ned quipped.

Zed raised an eyebrow. “That’s not an underdog story.”

“Well, there’s a dog in it,” Ned countered.

“Enough!” Ripslinger’s voice cut through the banter.

“Yeah, enough!” Zed repeated, hitting Ned on the head.

“You know, they shot Old Yeller at the end, you twits,” Ripslinger told the twins.

“Oh, spoiler alert!” Ned whined.

“Soon, we’ll be overrun by every high schooler, weekend warrior, and barista with a pilot’s license who think they can be one of us!” Ripslinger’s rant echoed in the corridor, his words stinging like a slap across the face.

I clenched my fists behind the potted plant, my heart pounding. I bit my tongue to keep from shouting at them.

“That boy,” Ripslinger murmured, his voice dark and sinister, “forgot who he is and where he came from. He’s not about to stop me from making history.”

With that, I heard as the trio of Ripslinger, Zed, and Ned's footsteps grew distant. I didn’t take Ripslinger’s threats seriously. I mean, how could he stop me without breaking the rules and getting himself disqualified? I pushed myself away from the potted plant, feeling a bit more hopeful despite the shadows their words had cast on my great run.

I then began to walk towards my hotel room, feeling both exhilarated and exhausted. The hallways were a blur of plush carpet and gleaming brass as the adrenaline from the race still pulsed through me. Once I was safely inside my room, I kicked off my shoes and flopped down onto the bed, the springs groaning beneath me. The walls were a soothing shade of blue that matched the sky I’d just been racing through. The quiet was a stark contrast to the deafening roar of the engines and the wind outside.

“New York to Percy Jackson, come in, please?” The radio on my nightstand crackled to life, the static piercing the silence.

“I’m here, guys,” I said into the radio, my voice echoing through the empty hotel room. The walls were plush with a soothing shade of blue, a stark contrast to the adrenaline-filled sky I’d just left.

“Percy! Eighth place!” Annabeth cheered over the radio, her voice a mix of surprise and excitement. It was like a warm blanket, wrapping around the cold edges of the room and thawing the tension that had been building in my shoulders.

“Way to go, Perce-meister!” Jason’s voice crackled over the radio, his enthusiasm unmistakable.

“Thanks, guys,” I said, feeling a grin spread across my face. “It wasn’t easy, but I think I’m starting to get the hang of this.”

“Don’t get too cocky,” Reyna warned from the radio, her voice firm and steady.

“She’s right,” Skipper agreed. “You got a big leg tomorrow. How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good,” I replied.

“Percy, that vertical wind shear is going to be wicked over those mountains,” Annabeth warned.

“Well, the good thing about being that high up, you see, there's not a lot of oxygen. So, if you crash, no explosion,” Leo said.

I chuckled. “Great, Leo.”

“Of course, you could die of hypothermia or an avalanche could get you. Then, of course, there's pneumonia, or even frostbite—”

“Leo. Leo! I got it,” I interrupted, laughing despite his dark humor. “Skip, what if a guy wanted to fly through the mountains instead of over them?” I asked, looking over at a map of the Himalayan Mountains.

“Bad idea,” Skipper said through the radio, his tone serious. “The Rogers flew through terrain like that in the Assault of Kunming. And Annabeth’s right. Wind coming over the peaks can stir up rotors that'll drag you right down. If you ask me, it's time to nut up. You can fly a whole lot higher than you think.”

I sighed. “Roger that,” I said into the radio, before ending the feed.

Chapter Text

I went down to the lobby and saw El Chu walking towards Rochelle. “Hola, corazón. Are you tired? Because you have been flying through my mind, nonstop.”

“Hmm, and why would I be tired flying through such a teeny, tiny space, huh?” Rochelle asked rhetorically before walking away.

“You can only pretend for so long!” El Chu called out to her.

I walked towards him. “Hey, El Chu, what's the problem?” I asked, hoping to be able to help.

El Chu sighed. “I am Icarus and she is the sun. I fly too close and I melt,” he said, dramatically gesturing to his heart.

“Maybe you're trying too hard,” I suggested to El Chu. “Look, all you got to do is go over, open your mouth and say—”

“Hello.”

I looked behind me to see Ishani standing there.

After a few moments, in a fake voice that didn’t fool me in the slightest, El Chu called out, “El Chupacabra!” Then, in his normal voice, said, “I think someone is calling me. I have to go.”

And with that, he dashed away, leaving me standing with Ishani, who was looking at me with a small smile. She was beautiful, with her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, and her emerald eyes sparkling in the light of the lobby's chandeliers. Her cheeks had a hint of color, as if she’d been running, or maybe it was the way she was looking at me.

“I want to compliment you on your success, Percy,” Ishani said softly, her voice as gentle as the evening breeze that danced through the hotel lobby. Her smile was warm and genuine, the kind that could melt the iciest of hearts. “You’re doing very well for your first race.”

“Thanks, Ishani,” I replied, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks. “That means a lot coming from you,” I added.

After a moment, she asked, “Have you ever been to the Taj Mahal?”

I shook my head. “No. No, I haven’t.”

She nodded towards the door. “Come on, let’s go.”

I felt a little guilty, knowing Annabeth was waiting for me back in New York, but I couldn’t resist the opportunity to see the Taj Mahal, and besides, it's not like I was going to do anything with Ishani.

Plus, it was a chance to get to know one of my fellow racers better. We strolled through the crowded streets, the air thick with the smell of spices and the sounds of honking horns.

“It must be nice to be back home,” I said to Ishani as we approached the gleaming white structure.

“Well, it’s complicated,” Ishani replied, her eyes never leaving the Taj Mahal. “I have a billion fans, and they're all expecting me to win.”

“Maybe this time, you will,” I offered, to which Ishani chuckled.

When we arrived at the Taj Mahal, I was breathless. “Wow,” I murmured, staring up at the magnificent marble structure. “This place is amazing.”

“It really is,” Ishani said, her voice filled with pride. “And tomorrow, you'll fly over the magnificent Himalayas.”

“Oh, umm, right,” I said, snapping out of my awe and remembering the race, and the treacherous leg ahead.

“You like to fly low, don't you?” Ishani commented, watching me gaze at the Taj Mahal.

“Oh. Oh, that? Uh, that's strategic. Air density and, uh, combustion,” I stumbled over my words, feeling a bit self-conscious.

“You know, you could follow the Iron Compass instead,” Ishani suggested, her eyes twinkling with something that looked like a secret.

“Iron Compass?” I repeated, intrigued.

“Yeah, railroad tracks, through a valley in the mountains, so you can still fly low,” Ishani said, her voice filled with a hint of excitement.

I smiled. “Thanks, Ishani,” I said.

She gave me a soft smile back. “Anytime,” she said, before we headed back to the hotel.

That night, I studied the map of the Himalayas, considering both Ishani and Skipper’s advice. Skipper had said the winds could be so strong it might drag me down, but the thought of flying through a valley, closer to the earth and the tracks of the Iron Compass, was too tempting to ignore. Plus, it was a chance to stay low. It was probably an idiotic choice, but that’s kind of my MO.

Chapter Text

The next leg was incredibly short, only about 40 to 50 minutes long from Agra to Upper Mustang in Nepal. But I knew that this was likely going to be the most treacherous one of them all.

The starting order, as had been set up by the finishing results of the leg to India, was as follows:
1. Ripslinger #13–USA
2. Zed #00–New Zealand
3. Ned #0–New Zealand
4. El Chupacabra #5–Mexico
5. Rochelle #22–Canada
6. Bulldog #11–United Kingdom
7. Ishani #6–India
8. Me #7–USA
9. Sun Wing #8–China
10. Jan Kowalski #15–Poland
11. Little King #14–Ireland
12. Van Der Bird #55–Netherlands
13. Yellow Bird #17–USA
14. Kolya Ivanov #19–Russia
15. Tsubasa #23–Japan
16. Veichi #1–Turkey
17. Arturo #3–Italy
18. Antonio #47–Spain
19. Miguel #16–Brazil.

The race to Nepal was underway. As I took off, my heart raced in sync with the engine. I had a plan to follow the Iron Compass, but I was nervous. The Himalayas loomed ahead, their peaks piercing the sky like giant teeth. The winds were stronger than I imagined, and snow flew against my windshield like a million tiny bullets.

As all the other racers flew way up high above the mountains, I went lower until I saw some railroad tracks.

I followed them until I saw something that made my eyes widen.

A tunnel.

I gazed up at the daunting snow ridge that the tracks disappeared into, the mouth of a frozen dragon ready to swallow me whole. I pulled up on the stick, the engine protesting with a whine.

However, as I began to ascend, I looked below me and saw the winds and snow swirling in a funnel, almost as if the mountains were trying to suck me back in. My fear of heights got the better of me, and I turned down and away from the tunnel.

As I caught my breath, I breathed out a harsh, "No," to myself. I wasn’t about to let fear win. I had to trust Ishani’s advice. With a deep breath, I turned back and plunged into the mouth of the dark tunnel, my heart pounding like the drums of war. The walls of the tunnel closed in around me, the shadows dancing in the dim light that filtered through the narrow opening.

I tilted my plane, trying to stay in the middle. However, I tapped the sides of the tunnel with my wings, causing sparks to fly, and then I heard it.

A train whistle.

“Oh, no!” I exclaimed, but since I couldn’t turn back, I just punched it, hoping that I could beat the train.

Apparently, the train saw me, because I saw it brake, and I yelled as I neared it.

The next thing I knew, I was flying in the clouds when I saw a landform emerge from the fog, the outline of a city carved into the side of a mountain.

As the city grew closer, I could see the ancient fortress walls surrounding it, the rooftops shimmering with a mix of gold and terracotta. The runway was a mere sliver in the mountain's side, a challenge to even the bravest of pilots. My heart was racing as I descended, the cold mountain air whipping past me like the whispers of ancient gods.

I touched down with a bump, my wheels skidding on the narrow strip of asphalt. “Uh, hello?!” I called out into the mist, feeling like I’d just crashed a very exclusive cloud party.

Three figures emerged from the fog, walking calmly towards me. They were all dressed in robes that matched the terracotta and gold of the city, with shaved heads and kind eyes. They looked like they’d stepped out of a history book titled "How to Be a Super Chill Monk."

The one in the center stopped a few feet away and offered a gentle bow. “Mr. Jackson, welcome to Nepal,” he said with a serene smile.

“Where is everyone? Have they left already?” I asked the monks, my heart racing as I glanced around the eerily quiet area.

“Actually, no one else is here yet. You’re in first place,” the monk revealed, his voice calm yet filled with a hint of amazement.

My heart skipped a beat. “R-Really?” I stuttered, my mouth forming a grin.

Chapter Text

“He flew through a what?!” Ripslinger demanded.

“A tunnel?” Bulldog asked in disbelief.

“That is crazy,” Rochelle commented.

I had a crowd of reporters surrounding me again. “Percy, how does it feel to be in first place?”

“It feels great. But more than anything, I'm just happy I fit through that tunnel,” I quipped, trying to play off the adrenaline still coursing through my veins. “Guys, I gotta tell you, if you're ever in a tight squeeze just…”

Just then, I saw Ishani beside her plane, and I noticed it had a new propeller. “Excuse me, guys,” I said to the reporters, making my way over to her.

“Crazy day today, huh?”

Ishani gasped and turned around to see me, and chuckled nervously. “Oh. Yeah, a very exciting win for you today.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, your propeller, is it new?”

“Oh, umm, I suppose it is,” Ishani said, her cheeks flushing slightly as she glanced at her plane.

“Sky Slycer Mark Five, right? Aren't those made exclusively for Ripslinger's race team?” I questioned, raising an eyebrow at Ishani.

“A-Are they?” Ishani stuttered, her eyes darting between me and her plane.

“Yeah, yeah it is,” I said, nodding at her plane.

She looked at the ground with a sad expression. “Percy…”

“You set me up!”

“Look, I didn't ever want to hurt you.”

“Why?”

“It’s complicated, okay?”

“You could’ve gotten me killed our there!”

“I really thought that you'd just turn around.”

“Well you were wrong, and I was wrong about you.”

I turned around and passed by Ripslinger. “Hey, Rip. Thanks for first place,” I said, and I heard him growl behind me.

I arrived at the hotel and immediately radioed back to the gang in New York. “Hey, guys, did you see the results of the latest leg?” I asked, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice.

“Are you kidding? First place, Percy? That’s awesome!” Frank’s voice spoke through the radio.

“The announcer said that you flew through a tunnel, Percy!” Annabeth’s voice was a mix of amazement and horror through the radio. “What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking, I was just flying on instinct, I guess,” I replied to Annabeth, trying to downplay the risk I’d taken. “But it’s all part of the quest, right?”

There was a pause on the other end of the radio, and then Jason’s voice filled the air. “Percy, that was insane. But hey, it worked, right?”

“You might actually have a shot to win this thing!” Leo’s voice crackled through the radio, his usual sarcasm replaced by genuine excitement.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I warned, though I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face.

Chapter Text

The next day, we began the next leg to Shanghai, China. The starting order for this leg was this:
1. Me #7–USA
2. Ripslinger #13–USA
3. Ishani #6–India
4. Zed #00–New Zealand
5. Ned #0–New Zealand
6. El Chu #5–Mexico
7. Rochelle #22–Canada
8. Bulldog #11–United Kingdom
9. Little King #14–Ireland
10. Kolya Ivanov #19–Russia
11. Tsubasa #23–Japan
12. Arturo #3–Italy
13. Sun Wing #8–China
14. Jan Kowalski #15–Poland
15. Antonio #47–Spain
16. Miguel #16–Brazil
17. Van Der Bird #55–Netherlands
18. Yellow Bird #17–USA. (Veichi had been DQed for unsporting conduct in the previous leg).

As we took off from Nepal, the wind was much calmer. I had the advantage of being in the lead, and I was determined to keep it. The others weren’t too pleased with my sudden rise in the standings, especially Ripslinger, who was now flying right behind me.

The flight to Shanghai wasn’t long, only two hours, and thanks to my advantage of taking off first, I had some breathing room.

Soon enough, the sprawling metropolis of Shanghai came into view. I touched down to see that I was still in the lead.

I went to my hotel room and radioed back to the group in New York again. “You're really showing them big-time racers a thing or two, huh?” Skipper asked.

“Yeah. We head out across the Pacific tomorrow. You were stationed there for a while, right Skip?” I asked, trying to get any intel on the area.

“Yeah,” Skipper replied, a hint of nostalgia in his voice.

“Got any advice?” I pressed, eager for any insider knowledge.

“Back in '41, during the Battle over Wake Island, the Rogers ran into serious monsoons with embedded CBs that could tear your wings right off,” Skipper began, his voice thick with the weight of experience. “Be careful. And one more thing... I'm proud of you, Percy.”

“Thanks, wingman,” I said, feeling a swell of gratitude for Skipper’s support.

“Hey, Percy,” I heard Annabeth begin, her voice tinged with excitement. “We have a surprise for you.”

Surprise? My curiosity piqued, I waited for her to continue.

“We’re going to see you in Mexico!” Annabeth exclaimed.

My heart skipped a beat. “Really?”

“Yup,” Grover confirmed. “Tickets are on Sparky and me. We sold 326 Percy bobbleheads, 143 antenna balls, 203 spinner mugs, 472 diecast planes…”

I heard a whistle blow. “And 1,000 whistles!” Sparky exclaimed. “Go team Percerino!”

“You sure you're up for it, Skipper?” I asked, feeling a mix of excitement and anxiety about the upcoming race leg.

“You bet. Somebody else is doing the flying,” Skipper joked.

“That's great news, guys! I'll see you in Mexico,” I said, unable to contain my excitement. The thought of seeing my friends, especially Annabeth, gave me a boost of energy for the next leg of the race.

That night, as I walked around city, I saw El Chu. “Hey, El Chu, where's the fire?” I asked.

“It is in my soul. Tonight, I shall win the heart of Miss Rochelle,” El Chu said before turning away, and I followed him.

I saw him stand in front of Rochelle’s hotel room with a jukebox, and he pressed play. Upbeat Mexican music began to play. “Ohhhhhh, haw-haw-haw-ay! Hmmmm, yeah! (Whoo!)” Rochelle closed her window. “I'm just a love machine And I won't work for nobody but you Aaaah! Ha! I'm just a love...” The music stopped “…machine? ¿Qué pasó?” He looked over to find me, holding the cord for the jukebox.

“Percy, what are you doing?!” he whisper yelled at me.

From behind me came a mariachi band, who began to play ‘Love Machine’, but a lot slower.

“Low and slow,” I told El Chu, nodding at the band.

El Chu nodded and sang again, this time slower and more heartfelt. “I'm just a love machine And I won't work for nobody but you (He's just a love machine) I only work for you, baby (a hugging kissing fiend) Yeah My voltage regulator cools, (regulator cools) When I taxi next to you (next to you) Electricity starts to flow And my indicator starts to glow Ooooh! I'm just a love machine And I won't work for nobody... But you!“ Rochelle opened her window again, and once El Chu was done, she said something in french Canadian, giggled, and then shut the window.

“What does that mean?” El Chu asked me.

“No idea, but French-Canadian is the language of love in Quebec. So, it's got to be good,” I teased El Chu, slapping him on the back.

“I am in your debt, compadre,” El Chu said, his eyes shining with gratitude. “If ever you need me, I shall be there.”

“Compadre… I like that,” I chuckled, before we headed back into the hotel to get some shut eye.

Chapter Text

“You are looking live at Pudong Shanghai International Airport,” Brent Musburger’s voice boomed through the radio, as the sun began to rise over the gleaming skyscrapers, “where our contestants are preparing for the next leg of the Wings Around the Globe Rally. This is our sixth and longest leg. These racers will need to follow their GPS antennas because there's a big ocean between here and Mexico.”

I saw Ripslinger, Ned, and Zed all looking at a leaderboard that showed me in first place. I said, “First place,” with a smug smile. The three looked at me, and I added, “Not too bad for a kid,” before walking away.

“Oh, yeah?” Ned called out. “Well, first place is for losers!”

“Can it, moron!” Ripslinger sneered.

Very faintly, I heard Ripslinger tell Ned and Zed, "Now, listen up. It’s time to make yourselves useful.” Once again, I didn’t think much of it.

The next leg was easily the longest one, spanning from Beijing to Mexico City, which was a total distance of about 8,000 miles, and should last about 17-18 hours.

The starting lineup was this:
1. Me #7–USA
2. Ripslinger #13–USA
3. Ned #0–New Zealand
4. Zed #00–New Zealand
5. El Chu #5–Mexico
6. Bulldog #11–United Kingdom
7. Ishani #6–India
8. Rochelle #22–Canada
9. Yellow Bird #17–USA
10. Antonio #47–Spain
11. Tsubasa #23–Japan
12. Sun Wing #8–China
13. Miguel #16–Brazil
14. Van Der Bird #55–Netherlands
15. Jan Kowalski #15–Poland
16. Kolya Ivanov #19–Russia
17. Little King #14–Ireland
18. Arturo #3–Italy.

As I was approaching the runway, I saw El Chu coming up to me, covered in kiss marks. “What happened to you?” I asked, trying to hide my amusement.

“That song. It flipped a switch,” El Chu said, beaming.

I chuckled before I kept walking towards the runway. I approached my plane and saw the skull and crossbones on the side from after Skipper had trained me.

“Volo Pro Veritatae,” I murmured to myself as I climbed into my plane, the Latin phrase Skipper had said echoing in my mind. It had become my mantra during the race – I fly for truth. The quest had led me here, to the edge of the Pacific, where the vast ocean sprawled out before me.

I was powerless, without any son of Poseidon advantages to help me navigate these skies. But I still felt good about this.

I planned to refuel in Hawaii and keep going through the night to Mexico. I took a deep breath and mentally prepared myself for the next leg ahead.

Before long, we were in the air, and just a little bit after that, I was just above the ocean, surrounded by nothing but water.

Then, out of nowhere, something or someone hit me and snapped off my antenna, sending it spiraling through the air like a silver snake before it plunged into the Pacific Ocean below.

My heart sank.

"No!" I yelled, reaching out as if I could somehow grab it. “No, no, no! What am I going to do?!”

I flew blind for what felt like hours, trying to use my radio. “Last known coordinates, 26 degrees, 31 minutes,” I said, my voice breaking up on the radio. “Hawaii, are you there? Do you read? I am low on fuel.”

Then, I saw an alarm beeping on my dashboard that indicated I was just about to run out of fuel. “Oh, boy,” I breathed out.

Just then, I heard a whirring behind me that sounded like a jet. And that’s because… it was a jet.

“Unknown rider, unknown rider. You have entered restricted airspace. Why haven't you responded to radio contact?” a voice boomed through my headset.

“S-Someone cut off my antenna,” I stammered, trying to keep calm.

“Identify yourself,” the voice on the radio demanded, the jet looming closer.

“I’m—I’m Percy Jackson,” I stuttered into the microphone, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Roger that. Bogey has been identified as Jackson Seven,” the voice responded, and the jet backed off a bit.

“I'm running on vapors. I need to land,” I called into the radio, my voice tight with urgency.

Then, a second jet pulled along side me, and the jet that was behind me pulled along the other side. “What are you doing out here with an empty tank?” the pilot of the second jet asked.

“I thought I'd refuel in Hawaii, but—”

“Hawaii is 375 miles southwest of here,” the first pilot interrupted, his voice calm over the radio.

“What?!” I yelled into the radio, panic setting in.

“Listen, Jackson,” the second pilot’s voice crackled in my ear. “You better follow us to the boat. No bingo fields around here.”

“‘Bingo fields’?”

“Places to land.”

“The boat?” I asked.

“The USS Dwight D. Eisenhower,” the second pilot explained.

We turned and I quickly saw a huge boat on the horizon, the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower aircraft carrier.

“Bravo, checking in as frag plus one. Check. Two,” the first pilot said calmly into the radio.

“Go ahead, Bravo,” someone replied.

“Bogey is civilian. Needs emergency fuel,” the first pilot, who apparently was Bravo, told him.

“Copy that,” the third person said.

“For crying out loud!” a fourth voice exclaimed, his voice harsh and stern, and I could easily tell he was the captain. “That's all I need, a civilian exploding on my deck!”

“We could rig the barricade,” the third person suggested.

After a moment, the captain said, “All engines, ahead flank.”

“Aye, Captain. All engines ahead flank. Rig the barricade,” the third voice responded, and the two jets escorting me descended towards the aircraft carrier.

The carrier grew closer and more terrifying with each passing second. The idea of landing on a moving strip of steel in the middle of the vast Pacific was not exactly how I’d pictured my morning.

“Let’s line you up for the barricade,” Bravo said, his voice cool and collected over the radio. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. The colossal aircraft carrier grew larger in my sights, a floating island of steel in the endless ocean. “All you got to do is throttle on back and call the ball and hopefully end up in the spaghetti.”

“What? Wait, no, wait! Guys, I’m not sure I can do this!” I shouted into the radio, the panic in my voice echoing the erratic rhythm of my racing heart. The colossal aircraft carrier grew larger and more intimidating with each passing second.

“I don't see how you have a choice,” the second pilot said, his tone firm but not unkind.

“Okay. But that runway is moving!” I exclaimed, my eyes wide as I stared at the approaching aircraft carrier.

“We'll set you up on the glide path,” Bravo assured me.

“Okay. I'm okay. I'm going to be fine,” I murmured to myself, trying to calm my racing heart.

“Throttle on back,” Bravo instructed.

“Maybe if I just came around again,” I suggested, my voice wavering.

“Level your wings,” the second pilot said, his voice calm and steady. “Easy with it.”

My heart racing, I did as he said, trying to keep the panic at bay as the aircraft carrier grew closer and closer. The wind whipped past me, and I could feel the heat from the engines below as I descended towards the narrow strip of metal that was the runway.

I came in hot, the wind buffeting my plane and the engines roaring in my ears. The barricade was rushing towards me, and I braced for impact, my knuckles white on the controls. But at the very last second, as the world seemed to slow down, my rear wheel snagged on something—a rope? It caught, jolting me forward in my seat as the plane's momentum was abruptly halted.

The cheers erupted around me, a cacophony of relief and excitement. The barricade had stopped me just in time. "We got you, Jackson!" a voice said over the radio, and the tension in my body began to uncoil.

Chapter Text

Me, Bravo, and the other pilot who’d helped me, Echo, were on a the aircraft elevator on the edge of the ship. “Come on, let's get your plane fixed up, refueled and back in the race. You are way behind,” Bravo said with a smile, looking at me.

“Thanks, guys,” I said for the umpteenth time. “You saved my tail out there.”

“Victory,” Echo said with a firm nod.

“Victory,” I repeated.

The elevator stopped and I saw a big board with a ton of pictures in front of me. “What’s that?” I asked, walking up towards it.

“That’s the Jolly Rogers Wall of Fame,” Bravo said, walking beside me.

“Every flyer, every mission,” Echo explained, walking up to the other side of me.

‘The Jolly Rogers? That’s Skipper’s old squadron’, I thought.

I scanned over the board, looking for him. “Skipper, Skipper,” I murmured.

Then, I saw him. “Oh. Ha-ha! There he is.” But what I saw made no sense.

Under Skipper’s picture was only one mission: ‘Guadalcanal’, along with a Purple Heart.

“Wait. I don't understand. Why is there only one mission?” I looked at the board, my heart racing.

As my plane was being fixed, I radioed back to New York. “Skipper, come in, Skipper!”

“Percy,” I heard him reply. “We're heading off to Mexico right now. Glad you got there safe. Weather report says a major storm is brewing out there.”

“I’m not in Mexico,” I told him, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. “I’m with the Jolly Rogers.”

“You’re on the Eisenhower?” Skipper’s voice was a mix of surprise and concern.

“Hey, I saw the Wall of Fame. They only list one mission for you,” I said into the radio.

“Percy, if you're not past that storm yet, you need—”

“That can't be right. It must be a mistake,” I insisted, feeling the weight of the unspoken history behind the Wall of Fame.

“Look, you have to get out of there. You're going to have to fly high,” Skipper’s voice grew more urgent over the radio, interrupting my confusion.

“Is it true?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, as I stared at the single mission listed under Skipper’s photo.

“Listen to me! Get above the storm!”

“Is it true?!”

“It’s true!”

I gasped into the radio, my mind reeling from the revelation. "It’s true,” Skipper repeated. “I only flew one mission.”

“But… but all those stories—”

“Jackson!”

I looked to see the captain coming over to me. “We got weather moving in fast. You gotta take off before it's too late.”

“I—I just need a second—”

“That's a negative, son. You don't go now, you don't go at all,” the captain said, before cutting off the radio communication.

“Be advised, the JTWC has issued a tropical cyclone formation alert for the northeast Pacific Ocean,” the PA announced. “Area of convection is located 500 nautical miles east-northeast of Hawaii. Maximum sustained surface winds are currently estimated at…”

I saw that my plane was already on the runway as rain poured down. “Report to catapult two,” a man told me, motioning toward my plane. “The cat will take you from zero to 160 knots in two seconds.”

“Two seconds?” I squeaked, looking at the catapult.

“We're going to check your weight and set the steam pressure,” the man said. “Remember, climb straight ahead once you get airborne. Get above the storm!”

Bravo and Echo looked at me. “Okay, engine full throttle,” Bravo called out. “Nod to the shooter when you’re ready.”

“Go win it for the Rogers, Percy!” Echo called out, slapping me on the shoulder as I climbed into my plane. “‘Volo Pro Veritatae’!”

I got into the cockpit and started the plane. The propeller began spinning, and I heard the shooter over the radio, “Head Wind's good. Pressure's good.”

I nodded toward him.

“Go on cat two,” the shooter instructed over the radio, his voice loud and clear in my headset.

My heart was racing faster than my propeller. The jet blast deflector went up. Rain pummeled the metal, making it slick and the wind howled around me, as if the storm itself was telling me not to go.

I took a deep breath and whispered to myself, "Volo Pro Veritatae," my new mantra.

The catapult shot me into the air like a rocket. The G-force pressed me into the seat, and I could feel my eyes watering. But once I was in the air, I locked in the new coordinates and started to fly.

As I flew through the storm, just above the water, I thought, ‘How could it be only one mission?’

‘The Battle of Midway’. ‘The Battle of Dutch Harbor’. ‘The Battle of Wake Island’. ‘The Aleutians’. ‘The Assault on Kunming’.

Just then, a strike of lightning illuminated the area, and I shook my head, trying to regain focus. “I gotta get above the storm,” I murmured, pushing the throttle forward, feeling the engines roar in response.

But then, as if the ocean was personally attacking me, a massive wave reared up from the dark abyss below. It crashed over my plane with the fury of my dad himself, the water so thick it felt like flying through jelly. After a few moments, I was passed the wave, and for a split second, I thought I'd be okay.

But then, my propeller stopped.

And I began falling.

“Mayday! Mayday! I’m going down!” I yelled into my radio. “18 degrees north, six minutes, 119–!”

Then I hit the water.

I immediately hit my head against the dashboard. Thankfully, no water entered the cockpit, but the impact was still enough to stun me. My vision swam as I fumbled with the emergency release.

I was so dazed that I couldn’t hit it. I was thrown around the cockpit like a ball on a trampoline. “H-Help,” I managed to croak into the radio.

Then, I lost consciousness.

Chapter Text

The first time I regained consciousness, I heard the whirring of helicopter blades cutting through the air, the vibration of the aircraft resonating in my bones. I felt weightless, suspended between the raging ocean below and the storm-filled sky above. Blinking the stars out of my vision, I looked around and saw a blur of metal and green fabric.

When my eyes finally focused, I realized I was in a helicopter, strapped into a harness. A rescue swimmer hovered over me, a look of concern etched on his face. I saw that my plane was being held securely in a rope net beneath us. Then, I blacked out again.

Next thing I knew, I was in Mexico City, surrounded by all my friends—Annabeth, Jason, Piper, Leo, Frank, Hazel, Reyna, Nico, Will, El Chu, Skipper, and Sparky, all of us in a hospital room, with a doctor checking me over.

“Broken ribs, bruised eyes,” the doctor rattled off my injuries in a calm tone as the others looked on with varying degrees of relief and concern.

I looked at Leo. “How’s the plane, Leo?” I managed to say.

Leo stepped forward, his own face etched with lines of worry. “Your planes not good. Broken wing ribs, twisted gear, bent prop, and your main spar is cracked bad… It’s over.”

I looked at Skipper with a scowl. “One mission,” I spat. “So much for ‘Volo Pro Veritatae’.”

Skipper looked at the ground. “Can we get a minute alone, please?” he asked the doctor and our friends.

The doctor nodded, and he, along with everyone else, made their way out of the room, leaving just me and Skipper.

As soon as we heard the door click shut, the tension in the room thickened like fog. Skipper took a deep breath, his eyes searching the floor tiles as if the answers were hidden within their patterns. He looked up, meeting my gaze with a solemn expression.

“My first patrol as a Jolly Roger was at Guadalcanal,” Skipper began, his voice tight with emotion. “My squadron was all rookies, all razor sharp. I should know, I trained every single one of them.”

Suddenly, the view of Skipper in front of me blurred and morphed, replaced by a scene of a distant time and place. I saw a group of F4U Corsairs flying in the clouds, their engines roaring. The planes were painted in the iconic Jolly Roger scheme, each with a number on the side. One of them, the leader, bore the number 7. I immediately knew it was Skipper. The scene was so vivid, so real, it was as if I was there, soaring through the skies with them.

“It was supposed to be a routine patrol,” I heard present day Skipper say. “A milk run.”

In the vision, I watched as a young pilot next to Skipper with the number 3, a grin on his face, pointed down at the vast, gray shape of the Japanese battleship, cutting through the waves like a shark through the sea. "Look, Skipper! Enemy ship, 2:00 low, two miles! Easy pickings! What do you say?"

Flashback Skipper’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at the ship. “Negative, jigsaw 2,” he said firmly into the radio. “Our orders are to recon and report back.”

But Jigsaw 2 wasn’t deterred. “Come on, Skip! It’ll be a turkey shoot!” His voice was filled with excitement, the kind that comes from a mix of adrenaline and inexperience.

Jigsaw 3 and 4 echoed his sentiment, their young voices crackling with eagerness over the radio. “Let’s do it, Skipper!” Jigsaw 3 exclaimed.

“Yeah, come on!” Jigsaw 4 chimed in.

Skipper in the flashback took a deep breath, his eyes flickering with uncertainty. Then, he nodded. “Alright. Let’s go in for a closer look, but keep your distance!” he said into the radio.

I watched as Skipper and his squadron of roughly 15 F4U Corsairs plunged through the clouds in a single file line, their wings slicing through the mist with the precision of a knife.

However, once the squadron emerged from the clouds, the ocean was not a serene gray canvas below them. Instead, it was a churning maelstrom of steel and fire. A fleet of Japanese battleships stretched out as far as the eye could see, their guns blazing upwards like a hundred hungry dragons.

“HOLY COW!” jigsaw 2 exclaimed in terror. “IT’S THE WHOLE ENEMY FLEET!”

“It was too late to pull up,” I heard present day Skipper tell me.

In my mind’s eye, the flashback grew clearer, more terrifying. The squadron returned fire, their bullets tracing a fiery dance through the air. The Japanese ships responded with a barrage of anti-aircraft fire, a deadly web of steel and explosions. The sound of bombs and the screams of engines filled the sky, a symphony of destruction that seemed to go on forever.

The bombs from the ships hit the planes with a ferocity that was almost personal, as if the steel beasts had eyes that locked onto each individual aircraft with a vendetta. The first explosion was a burst of color, a macabre bloom in the gray sky. A second later, the air was filled with the deafening sound of tearing metal and the screams of the dying. The rest of the squadron followed in quick succession, each explosion a grim exclamation mark on the end of a life's story.

I watched as Skipper yelled at Jigsaw 2, “Get out of there, Lucas!” But it was too late. The young pilot's plane was hit, and it spun out of control, a fiery comet plummeting into the cold, unforgiving ocean. The remaining Corsairs returned fire, their bullets sparking against the steel hides of the enemy ships, but the response was swift and brutal. The Japanese anti-aircraft fire grew denser, and the sky was a chaotic tapestry of death and destruction.

One by one, each plane became fiery blazes before they plunged into the sea… including Skipper. Skipper’s plane was shot, and spun like a pin wheel in a near vertical dive, straight into the depths of the Pacific Ocean.

Seemingly hours later, Skipper’s Corsair was being lifted out of the sea by a mighty American aircraft carrier, its cranes and nets moving with the grace of a ballet dancer. The medic pulled him out of the cockpit, his eyes full of sorrow as he carefully unbuckled the harness and lowered him to the deck.

I watched as the medic looked to the ground mournfully, not saying a word. Even so, I, along with the flashback Skipper, understood.

My vision blurred again, before focusing to return to present day. I saw present day Skipper, his eyes full of tears, looking down at the ground.

“My whole squadron…” Skipper’s voice trailed off, thick with the weight of his memories, “under my command. After that, I just couldn't bring myself to fly again.”

The room grew so quiet, you could hear the beeps of the hospital monitors echoing through the silence. I sat there, stunned, trying to comprehend the gravity of what he’d just told me.

Skipper raised his arm to wipe the tears from his eyes, the fabric of his sleeve smudging against his rough skin. He took a moment, gathering his thoughts before speaking. His gaze was intense, his voice steady. “Let me ask you something, Percy. If you knew the truth about my past, would you have asked me to train you?”

I was speechless. After a moment, I looked down at my body lying on the hospital bed. "No," I murmured, my voice barely audible above the beeping machines.

He nodded, before turning and began walking to the door. But, just before he turned the doorknob, he paused and looked back at me again. In a truly and genuinely remorseful voice, he said, "I’m sorry, Percy."

Chapter Text

The next morning, I was able to walk. The doctor had patched me up with some bandages and painkillers, and I was feeling a little better. I made my way out of the hospital into the warm, humid air of Mexico City. The sun was just rising, casting a soft light over the tarmac where my plane was parked. The damage was clear, even from a distance—broken wing struts and a twisted propeller. It was a miracle I'd made it out at all.

Leaning against the landing gear of my trusty aircraft, I took in the scene. The early light glinted off the metal, and the distant hum of the city was a stark contrast to the quiet of the airfield.

“Percy?”

I turned to see Annabeth walking towards me, her eyes still filled with sleep but her expression filled with concern.

“Can you believe it? He hasn't been straight with me this whole time,” I said, unable to mask my disappointment as Annabeth approached. “I should’ve just listened to everyone. I’m just a kid. What was I thinking, going on this race?”

“Percy, if you had done that, I’d never forgive myself for not telling you otherwise,” Annabeth said softly, before standing in front of me. “Look, Skipper may have been wrong for what he did, but he was right about you. You're not a kid. You're a racer. And now the whole world knows it.”

I sighed and stood up to see the rest of my friends nodding. “Thanks, Wise Girl. That means a lot, but I've gone as far as I can go. I mean, my plane’s all busted up. Look at it.”

“Yes, look at it.”

I turned to see El Chu approaching with two wings. “Percy, I cannot bear the thought of competing without you.”

“Hey, those are the wings of a T-33 Shooting Star,” I said, recognizing the sleek design and wingtip fuel tanks.

El Chu nodded solemnly. “When the great Mexican Air Force needed help, American T-33s came. They did not ask questions. They did not hesitate. They were there. Because that is what compadres do.”

“El Chu, I really appreciate—”

El Chu shushed me. “Silencio. After all, you helped me with my pursuits of the heart. Now we are here to help you.”

“We?”

“Oui.”

I saw as Rochelle came up with boxes of parts. “Good luck tomorrow, Percy. I am so proud to compete with you.”

Next was Bulldog. “You’re a good egg, Percy. Look, here’s a sat-nav device,” he said, holding out a small black box. His eyes were misty, and he sniffled. “Just in case... In case you ever find yourself lost, you know, without a... Without a friend to help you through it.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Bulldog.”

“Here's a flow control valve for you,” Little King said, offering a shiny gadget.

Miguel came up. “How about a starter generator?” He held out another part.

Jan Kowalski walked up next. “It is honor to fly beside you,” he said, his English heavily accented but earnest.

Soon enough, every racer had given me a part or something to help rebuild my plane. “Thanks, everyone, really,” I said, feeling the weight of their generosity.

“This is fantastic!” Leo exclaimed. “All we need now is—”

“A new propeller? How about a Sky Slicer Mark Five?”

I looked to see a woman of Indian ethnicity pushing a cart with a contra-rotating propeller with two blades on each prop.

It was Ishani.

“Wait, that's your propeller,” I said, stunned by the generous offer. “You could still win the race.”

“Oh, I intend to, but with my old propeller,” Ishani said with a warm smile. “This one didn't really suit me. But I think you will have a lot better luck with it.”

I returned the smile. “Thanks, Ishani,” I said, taking the propeller with a mix of awe and disbelief. I looked at Leo. “Leo, can you fix my plane?”

“Does a PT6A have a multi-stage compressor?” Leo said, already inspecting the propeller with excitement.

Everyone looked at each other, confused.

“Yes!” Leo exclaimed. “Yes, it does! All right, you guys, let's get him ready to race.”

The group sprang into action, working together to replace the damaged parts and install the new ones. The air was filled with the sounds of tools clanging and engines roaring to life as each racer contributed their skills and knowledge to the makeshift repair operation.

As my plane was being repaired, I saw Grover over at the side, watching some footage, before coming over to me to tell me something.

Chapter Text

“We are live from Mexico,” Brent Musburger’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “And here they come. This is it, race fans. The final leg back to New York.”

I walked up to my friends: Annabeth, Jason, Piper, Leo, Frank, Hazel, Reyna, Nico, Will, and Sparky. “We’ll see you in New York,” Annabeth said to me, her voice steady and determined.

“Thanks, guys,” I said, my voice thick with emotion as I hugged them one by one. “I couldn't have made it this far without you’re support. I never would’ve thought going into this that I’d have a chance to win.”

Annabeth walked up to me and kissed me gently on the lips. “Just make it back home, complete the quest, and get the recommendation letter from Hermes. Then we get to go to New Rome University together.”

I nodded, feeling a surge of love and gratitude for my friends. With a final wave, I walked towards the runway.

On the way, I saw Ripslinger, Ned, and Zed talking. Ripslinger saw me and scowled. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“Woah, who’s that guy?” Zed asked.

“It’s the kid,” Ned replied.

“Another one?” Zed asked.

Ned whacked Zed on the head. “It’s the same one, knuckle head!”

“Move aside, idiots,” Ripslinger sneered as he shoved past them, his eyes fixed on my newly repaired plane as he got in my face. “Bolting on a few new parts doesn’t change who you are,” he jeered, spittle flying in the tense air. He sniffed the air. “I can still smell the water on you.”

I chuckled. “You know what? I finally get it. You’re afraid of getting beat by a kid! Well, check six, because I’m coming.”

And with that, I walked away, but not before I heard Ripslinger tell Ned and Zed something. At the time, I couldn’t make out what he’d said. In hindsight, however, I know what he told them.

“We are going to end this, once and for all.”

Something else I only learned in hindsight was that Skipper, who had been walking nearby, had heard Ripslinger’s words.

Chapter Text

The starting lineup for the last leg was as follows:
1. Ripslinger #13–USA
2. Zed #00–New Zealand
3. Ned #0–New Zealand
4. Rochelle #22–Canada
5. El Chu #5–Mexico
6. Bulldog #11–UK
7. Ishani #6–India
8. Van Der Bird #55–Netherlands
9. Tsubasa #23–Japan
10. Arturo #3–Italy
11. Miguel #16–Brazil
12. Antonio #47–Spain
13. Sun Wing #8–China
14. Little King #14–Ireland
15. Jan Kowalski #15–Poland
16. Yellow Bird #17–USA
17. Kolya #19–Russia
18. Me #7–USA.

As Ripslinger prepared to take off, Brent Musburger's words echoed in the air. "This one’s all about speed and the willingness to give it all. First one to cut the ribbon in New York takes home the trophy and the glory."

The flagman waved the green flag and Ripslinger flew off. A few minutes later, Ned and Zed went, followed by Rochelle and El Chu a minute later, than Bulldog, Ishani, and everyone else with a minute intervals in between until I was last.

Though I had not completed the previous leg, race officials ruled my radio had been tampered with, so I’d be allowed to compete, but with a severe time penalty.

I took a deep breath and climbed into the cockpit, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. The Fates had led me to this moment, and I knew I couldn't let Annabeth down.

The time penalty was five minutes, and it felt like an eternity as I sat there waiting, watching the clock tick down. The anticipation was almost unbearable, my heart hammering in my chest like a drumline in a parade.

“Sinco!” the fans in the grandstands cheered. “Quadro! Tres! Dos! Uno! Cero!”

I punched the throttle and pulled up into the air.

I remembered from my research before the start of this that no one had come back from as far behind as I was. I knew it was going to take both the horsepower of my supercharged Air Tractor AT-802 and the willpower of a demigod war hero to even have a chance.

I sticked to my MO: low and fast. However, this leg was actually longer than it otherwise would’ve been. That was because in the Gulf of Mexico, there was a storm brewing. And after my experience in the last race, nobody—not even I—was eager to repeat that. So, we all decided to take the northern route, flying over the continents rather than risking the tempestuous sea.

That meant we’d traverse Deadstick Desert. Deadstick Desert is a desert that begins all the way down in Northern Mexico, starting right at about the same line of latitude as the southern tip on Baja California, and stretches North all the way up to the northern borders of Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona.

Anyhow, due to my more aerodynamic propeller and wings, my retractable landing gear, and my pure determination, I pretty easily blazed past Kolya Ivanov, Yellow Bird, Jan Kowalski, Little King, and Sun Wing. The air was cooler closer to the ground, which helped keep my engine from overheating. And, let’s face it, there’s just something about sticking it to the competition that’s incredibly satisfying. 12th place.

As we approached a river valley, the winds began to pick up. The forecast had predicted some nasty headwinds, and boy, were they right. The other racers decided to fly above the valley in order to not risk crashing into the sides of the gorge.

I, however, had a different strategy. I flew right inside the valley, following the river that’d carved the valley itself. That way, I wouldn’t have to fly high so I wouldn’t have to face my fear of heights, but more importantly, I could stay in the lee of the valley walls, avoiding the nasty headwinds that had everyone else playing it safe up high. Pretty easily I caught and passed Miguel and Arturo. 10th place.

After a few more minutes, the river valley came to an end, and I exited it accordingly. The horizon was now a mix of blue and brown, with a few scattered clouds that looked like they were painted by a child with a finger. Up ahead, I spotted the unmistakable shapes of Tsubasa and Van Der Bird, who had chosen to fly the high route. They were both fighting the same headwinds, their planes buffeted by the unrelenting gusts.

With newfound confidence, I pushed the throttle a little more and brought my plane closer to the ground. The engine roared louder as a grassy hill grew larger and larger in my vision. I turned my plane and sped around it, and passed Tsubasa and Van Der Bird. Their faces were tight with concentration, their planes jerking and weaving in the harsh winds. They didn't even notice me as I shot by, a blur of orange, blue, and silver in the sky. 8th place.

As the desert grew closer, the land began to flatten out like a pancake on a griddle. I knew that the rest of the racers flying high above wouldn't be dealing with the same headwinds as before, thus removing that advantage for me. Even so, I knew I was faster than them. After my plane had been repaired and supercharged, Annabeth had actually done the math. With the Sky Slicer Mark Five propeller, the T-33 Shooting Star wings, the retractable landing gear, and the overall more aerodynamic design, my Air Tractor AT-802 had a top speed that was the exact same as the three time defending champion's, Ripslinger—453 mph.

I saw Bulldog pass Ishani high above me, their planes looking like tiny metal birds against the vast canvas of the sky. I pushed the throttle even further and passed both of them, my heart pounding in my chest.

Apparently, they both saw me. I heard Bulldog over my radio say, “Good show, Percy!”

Ishani then followed, her voice steady over the radio crackle. “You have 10 times the heart and integrity of Ripslinger, Percy. Remember that.”

I didn’t respond. Instead, I merely nodded and smirked before continuing my rapid climb through the field.

Not three minutes later, I caught up to Rochelle and El Chu. They were flying high, using their superior speed to cut through the air above the desert floor. But they hadn’t seen me yet. I took a deep breath and pushed the throttle even further, the engine screaming in response as my plane shot forward like an arrow from Apollo’s bow.

As I approached, the horizon grew closer and closer, and finally, their planes were in my mirror.

“Vamonos, compadre!” El Chu’s voice crackled over the radio, and I couldn’t help but look back and up at him and smile at the encouragement from someone who had already become a very close friend. 4th.

I took a deep breath and focused on the horizon, where the rock towers grew closer by the second. Their jagged peaks looked like teeth ready to bite into the sky, and the sun painted them in a fiery orange hue. The wind howled around me, trying to push me away from my destination, but I was undeterred.

“Let’s do this,” I murmured to myself, gripping the controls tighter. With a surge of adrenaline, I pushed the throttle to the max, feeling the engine's power rumble beneath me.

As the Mexican-American border grew closer, the landscape grew more rugged and unforgiving.

And then, I saw them. The three competitors who’d been taunting me from the skies, their planes like silhouettes against the backdrop of the blue sky. Ripslinger, Ned, and Zed.

They rounded a colossal rock tower that jettisoned out of the desert floor, a natural sentinel in this vast expanse of sand and stone. Then, they made an unexpected turn, looping around the tower's base instead of going straight past it like they should’ve. I simply kept going straight, my eyes narrowed and my mind racing with suspicion.

But before I knew it, they had come up behind and above me, their planes cutting through the air with a ferocity that seemed almost supernatural.

Then I heard them on my radio.

"Hey, kid!” Zed's taunting voice crackled over the radio, echoing in my headset like a malignant whisper.

"Time to plow the field!" Ned chimed in, his words sending a cold shiver down my spine.

With a sinking feeling, I watched in horror as Ripslinger flew right above me and opened his landing gear. His plane was so close that I could almost touch it. He lowered slightly until the wheel pressed on my cockpit windshield, the metal digging into the glass with a terrifying screech.

"Looks like you've run out of airspace, Jackson," Ripslinger sneered, his voice a mix of triumph and spite. He pushed down even harder, forcing my plane into the cacti below, their sharp spines glinting in the fading light like an angry sea of needles waiting to impale me.

But fate had other plans. Just as the panic was about to overwhelm me, I heard the unmistakable roar of another engine approaching at breakneck speed. In a blur of motion, a plane streaked past the trio, so close it caused them to wobble and have to pull up.

I was able to make out the details of the plane. It was a Vought F4U Corsair, painted with the iconic Jolly Rogers livery from World War II, the number 7 proudly displayed on its side. I caught a blink and you’ll miss it look of the pilot, and my heart nearly stopped.

“Skipper?!” I yelled into my radio.

“Percy, pull up!” Skipper yelled.

I looked ahead and saw why he was telling me to pull up. A massive rock formation with a large gap loomed in front of me. Without a second thought, I yanked the stick back and my plane shot upwards, the world turning upside down as I flipped gracefully through the air. A thrill coursed through my veins as I saw the gap coming closer. The desert floor fell away, replaced by the looming rock walls. I couldn’t help the smile that crept onto my face.

“Skipper, you’re flying!” I exclaimed over the radio, unable to contain my shock and joy.

Skipper chuckled. “Oh, you noticed? Listen, I got Rip, you take care of the other two,” he said, before peeling off to engage Ripslinger.

“Got it!”

I banked sharply, flipping my plane upside down, and plummeted towards the earth. The canyon walls rushed up to meet me, and I felt the blood rushing to my head. At the last possible second, I yanked the stick and dove into the narrow ravine. The roar of the wind was deafening, the world a blur as I shot through the canyon.

Ned and Zed were right on my tail, but they hadn’t anticipated the move. I watched in my rearview as they overshot the gap, their planes momentarily silhouetted against the blue sky before they realized their mistake and dove in after me.

Flipping back upright, I pushed the stick forward, sending my aircraft into a serpentine pattern through the canyon. The walls of rock rushed by in a dizzying dance of shadow and light.

I watched as from the opposite direction, Skipper's Corsair streaked past, Ripslinger in hot pursuit. "They're on your six, kid!" he called out over the radio, his voice filled with urgency. "You gotta lose 'em!"

“I’m trying!” I yelled back frustratingly.

I pulled off a couple more sharp turns, trying to shake them, but they were sticking to me like glue. I looked over and saw the New Zealand twins right there. I had to get out of this.

Suddenly, the sound of roaring engines grew louder as I was jolted from my thoughts. I glanced to my side and there was Skipper, his Corsair racing alongside me, Ripslinger on his tail.

“Skip, I can’t shake them!” I shouted over the radio, the three members of Team RPX chasing after us.

“Pull hard right,” Skipper instructed, his voice crackling over the radio. “I'll break left and take out Rip. Use the rocks!”

“Roger that!” I yelled, adrenaline pumping as I swung my plane into a hard right turn, the world tilting dangerously before snapping back into place.

In front, the rocky landscape grew closer as I spotted a rocky gap, which looked impossibly narrow. A daring idea took shape in my mind, a risky move that could either save me or spell disaster. I pulled up slightly, my heart racing, and throttled back. The engine whined in protest as I yanked the stick to one side.

My plane rolled to the right, and I could hear my wing hit something solid. Looking back, I saw a burst of metal and fabric as Zed's plane began pinwheeling.

I yanked the stick again, tilting my plane so that it was in a knife-edge position, the horizon a perfect line dividing the sky and the ground. The gap in the rocks grew larger and larger in my vision, the edges seemingly closing in on me like the jaws of a giant stone beast. I held my breath, every muscle in my body tense with anticipation.

At the last possible second, I felt the wind change as I slipped through, the rocks grazing the very tips of my wings. The world spun around me as I rolled out on the other side, my heart racing with the exhilaration of a narrow escape. I checked my mirrors and saw that Ned had followed my lead, but Zed's misfortune had caused them to enter the gap too close together.

They were stuck, their planes' undersides wedged tightly against the canyon walls, their cockpits pressed against the other’s.

“Yeah!” I cheered over the radio as I watched the twins struggle to free themselves.

With newfound confidence and a renewed sense of urgency, I pushed the throttle forward and shot out of the canyon and through the desert, my eyes scanning the skies for any sign of Skipper.

In the distance, I spotted two planes locked in a fierce dogfight: Skipper’s blue Corsair and Ripslinger’s green modified P-51. They were weaving and diving, their engines snarling like a pair of enraged beasts. My heart pounded in my chest as I shoved the throttle forward, the engine roaring in response. The propeller spun faster, and I shot off towards them, eager to help.

The desert heat blurred the horizon, but as I drew closer, the battle grew more intense. Ripslinger was relentless, his plane’s nose a constant threat to Skipper’s tail. But Skipper was no novice; he had seen combat before, and his flying was a dance of precision and cunning.

I watched as Skipper went wide around a towering rock formation, and Ripslinger, unable to mimic the move due to his bulkier aircraft, was forced to follow a straighter trajectory.

Skipper ended up right behind Ripslinger, his plane's nose a mere few inches from Ripslinger’s tail.

I watched as Skipper's Corsair surged ahead, the engine's roar echoing through the desert skies. He pulled alongside Ripslinger's plane, close enough to make eye contact. Ripslinger sneered, his eyes flickering with fear and fury.

"Say hello to the Warsaw Windmill!" Skipper shouted over the radio, his voice filled with a mix of excitement and challenge.

Without warning, Skipper's plane lurched, his wing colliding with Ripslinger's, sending him into a wild, uncontrolled spin.

“You’re crazyyyyyyy!!!!” Ripslinger screamed over the radio as he spun out of control, his plane a chaotic blur of green, black, and orange against the desert ground.

Skipper laughed. “That’s right.”

I sped up to get beside Skipper, and did so just before we reached the end of the desert. Once we were side by side, we both throttled back.

“Percy, you okay?” Skipper’s voice was steady in my headset despite the chaos that had just unfolded.

“Yeah,” I responded, trying to keep my voice steady. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“That was pretty good for a kid,” Skipper teased, a hint of pride in his voice.

I chuckled. “And not bad for an old timer who doesn’t fly,” I shot back with a smirk.

“Oh, yeah?” Skipper chuckled. “Well, I may be old, but at least I ain’t afraid of heights.”

I laughed. “Okay,” I said into the radio.

But the moment of levity was shattered when I saw Ripslinger's plane zoom up from behind Skipper, his propeller spinning with malicious intent. In a flash, he sliced off a chunk of Skipper's tail wing, leaving a jagged edge that sent a shiver down my spine.

“NOOO!” I screamed into the radio as I watched the horror unfold. Ripslinger’s grin grew wider as he pulled away, leaving Skipper’s plane damaged and vulnerable.

“That’s why they call them Sky Slicers!” Ripslinger’s triumphant laughter echoed over the radio before he shot away into the distance.

My heart racing, I pulled alongside Skipper’s damaged Corsair. The sight of the shredded wing made my stomach drop. “Skipper, you okay?” I spoke into the radio, trying to keep the fear out of my voice.

Skipper chuckled. “You kidding? I’m great,” he said, though his plane wobbled in the air, the damaged wing slicing through the sky like a half-broken kite.

“But… what about your tail?” I said, my voice tight with anxiety.

“I’ll live,” Skipper said. “Go get him! GO!”

I didn’t need any more motivation. I pushed my throttle to full power and took off after Ripslinger, my eyes narrowed in determination. The wind screamed past me as I closed the distance between us, the desert a blur beneath my wings.

Chapter Text

When we exited Deadstick Desert, we turned from going North to go East towards New York City. The landscape beneath us shifted from the unforgiving sands to the rolling plains of Kansas. The wind was in our favor, pushing us along like invisible hands. I looked at my dashboard and focused on the map that Leo had so ingeniously installed. Ripslinger was represented by a green arrow, while I was represented by an orange arrow. The distance to New York City was marked out, a daunting 1,200 miles that stood between me and the end of the quest.

Ever so slowly, I chased down Ripslinger's green blip on the horizon, the adrenaline from the desert chase still coursing through my veins. The landscape shifted beneath us, the plains of Kansas giving way to the rolling green hills of Kentucky. The wind caressed our wings as the clouds became darker. It wasn’t going to rain, but the clouds definitely made the sunlight disappear.

Finally, I was only about 10 plane lengths behind Ripslinger as we approached an electrical tower that stood tall and imposing, its metal struts a stark contrast against the brooding sky.

As we drew nearer, I could feel the static electricity crackling in the air, my heart racing in sync with the propeller's rhythm. Ripslinger took a sharp turn to the right, trying to shake me off his tail. But I had studied his moves in the desert; I knew his tricks.

Banking left, I held my breath and hugged the tower so close that my wingtips almost grazed the metal struts. The tower loomed above us like a silent sentinel, the cables humming a dangerous tune that seemed to resonate with the prophecy itself. I knew the risks; a misstep here could be catastrophic. But my time during the wars had taught me to embrace danger, to find the path through the storm.

The air grew thick with static as we shot out from the tower's shadow, the wind whispering through the wires. I pushed the stick forward, and the world tilted, the horizon tilting to meet me. My heart raced as the ground fell away, and suddenly, I was right beside Ripslinger, our wings nearly brushing together. The tension between us was palpable, our rivalry the most potent force in the sky.

He glanced over, his eyes wide with shock. "What?" he bellowed into the radio, his voice crackling with disbelief.

I looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. “Hi,” I said bluntly, my expression remaining one of total stoicism.

Ripslinger's eyes narrowed, and he growled, before pushing his throttle to the max. His green plane shot ahead like a bullet, the roar of his engines taunting me as he gained distance.

I pushed the throttle, trying to do the same, but I simply couldn’t go any faster. Looking down at my dashboard, my eyes went wide with horror. The needle on the RPM gauge was buried in the red zone, and the engine was screaming in protest.

“Come on, come on, come on! Not now!” I yelled at the dashboard as the RPM gauge screamed in protest. The engine was at its limits, and my plane was shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. “Not now! Come on, come on, come on!”

My plane slowed down as if it’d shifted a gear, the RPM gauge returning to the yellow zone.

“NOOO!”

I looked down before suddenly seeing a sliver of light shining from above me.

I looked up and saw a series of long clouds beside one another.

‘Tailwinds like nothing you’ve ever flown’, Skipper had told me during our first day of training.

I took a deep breath and looked determinedly up at ‘the highway in the sky’.

“Roger that, Skip,” I murmured to myself, steeling my nerve. I nosed my plane upward and aimed for the sliver of light between the clouds, my heart in my throat.

As I climbed, I repeated to myself, "Don't look down. Don't look down. Don't look down."

So, as you can probably guess….

I looked down.

The clouds below me were swirling into a funnel, just like they had before when I'd previously tried to defy my fear of heights. I gasped, but instead of turning back in defeat, I took a deep breath and pushed the stick forward.

I burst through the clouds.

The sudden change in air pressure was like being shot out of a cannon, the tailwinds propelling me forward at breakneck speed. My plane began to wobble from the sudden change in speed, the force pushing me to the limits of what I thought was possible.

I instantly yelled in surprise before… I grinned.

“OH, YEAH!!!” I cheered as my plane wobbled violently from the tailwinds, my aircraft speeding up to a velocity I never thought possible. The force was exhilarating, the world around me a blur as I shot through the sky like an orange bullet. My heart raced, but fear was replaced with a grin that spread ear to ear. “HAHA!!! WOOHOOHOOHOOHOO!!!”

After only a few minutes, another gap in the clouds appeared below me like a heavenly opening. As I looked down through the misty white veil, my heart pounding in my chest, I caught a glimpse of the world below. There was Ripslinger, his plane a speck against the vast blue and green landscape, passing by the unmistakable form of the Statue of Liberty, a symbol of freedom and hope that seemed to stretch out a hand in silent greeting.

“Okay,” I murmured to myself. “Time to eat my dust!”

With a newfound determination, I remembered what Skipper had taught me about speed and gravity. I rolled my plane inverted and extended my dive, feeling the g-forces pushing me into my seat as the clouds rushed towards me like a waterfall. The world spun around me, the sky and the ground switching places in a heart-stopping dance of blue and white. The wind screamed past the cockpit, the sound of the engine a distant echo in the vastness of the sky.

As I broke through the bottom of the clouds, the runway stretched out before me like a ribbon of asphalt snaking through the concrete jungle of New York City. Ripslinger’s plane grew larger in my sights, his smug smile visible even from this distance. The city skyline loomed ahead, the skyscrapers reaching up to greet us, their glass surfaces reflecting the setting sun like a thousand shards of fire.

My heart hammered in my chest as I closed the gap between us, the wind screaming in my ears. I rolled right side up, and I was within spitting distance of him.

Then, just like he had the very first time I’d seen him, all the way back at the time trials, he leaned his plane over to a group of photographers, and I could almost here him say, ‘Get my good side, fellas!’

And there I took my chance.

I swerved to the left, the crowd disappearing in a blur of color and sound. The propeller chopped through the air as I pulled a bold maneuver, my heart pounding like a war drum. The plane screamed in protest, but I held my nerve, the training from Skipper keeping my hand steady on the stick.

For a brief, heart-stopping moment, I was eye to eye with Ripslinger. His smug grin was frozen in place as I shot past him, so close our wings almost kissed. The crowd below gasped as I executed a perfect radial-g pass, the force of gravity pushing me into my seat, my vision momentarily narrowing.

As the world swirled around me, I caught a glimpse of the grandstand. There they were, my friends—no, my family, their faces a kaleidoscope of shock and excitement. Jason and Grover looked like they were about to burst with anxiety. Leo and Piper were jumping up and down, shouting my name, while Frank had a look of absolute bewilderment. Hazel’s eyes gleamed with hope. Reyna’s jaw was clenched tightly as she watched, her eyes never leaving the sky. Will was grabbing Nico’s arm in suspense, while Sparky was smiling like a maniac.

But my focus was on Annabeth, standing among them, her eyes a mix of disbelief, pride, and love. She’d been my anchor in life, quite literally, as when I bathed in the River Styx before the Battle of Manhattan, she’d been my anchor to the mortal world.

I focused on her as I roared past Ripslinger, my plane shaking with the sheer speed. I straightened out of the pass, the wind tearing at my wings as if it was trying to rip me apart. And then…

I cut the ribbon.

“HE’S DONE IT!!!” Brent Musburger’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers, echoing through the grandstands. “HE’S DONE IT!!!”

“FROM LAST TO FIRST!!!” Colin Cowling yelled, his voice crackling with excitement. “FROM OBSCURITY TO IMMORTALITY, THE RACING WORLD WILL NEVER FORGET THIS DAY!!!”

“FOR THE FIRST TIME, A COMPETITOR UNDER 21 HAS WON THE WINGS AROUND THE GLOBE RALLY!!!” Brent Musburger's voice echoed through the air, the crowd's cheers rising like a crescendo around us.

I couldn’t believe it.

I’d done it.

Chapter Text

I landed my plane on the runway of JFK Airport, feeling the thunderous applause from the crowd shake the very ground beneath me. My heart was racing, and my hands were shaking as I killed the engine, the propeller spinning to a gradual halt. I had never felt so alive, so triumphant.

I opened the cockpit and climbed out, feeling a mix of exhilaration and exhaustion. As soon as my feet touched the asphalt, a clump of honey blonde hair wrapped its arms around me.

“YOU DID IT, SEAWEED BRAIN!” Annabeth shouted, her voice bursting with pride and relief.

She pulled back, before grabbing my face and kissing me, hard. After a moment, I wrapped my arms around her, holding her tightly against me, feeling her heart hammering just as fast as mine.

As we pulled apart, I was met with a sea of smiling faces. My friends rushed towards us, their cheers and laughter ringing in my ears.

“All right!” Jason’s voice boomed over the din, patting me on the back so hard it was like a mule had kicked me.

“That’s what I call a pass!” Leo’s voice pierced through the air, and his grin was so wide it looked like it might split his face in two.

“You did it, buddy!” Grover exclaimed, hugging me tightly.

I hugged back before pulling away and smiling at him. “Hey, great tip about Ripslinger leaning to the cameras. Thanks, G-Man,” I said, smiling at my best friend.

“Anything for my pal,” Grover said with a grin.

As the planes of Rochelle, El Chupacabra, Bulldog, and Ishani touched down in succession, the pilots wasted no time. They leapt from their cockpits and sprinted across the tarmac, their eyes locked on our embrace. The air was electric with the buzz of propellers winding down and the roar of the crowd. The sound of their footsteps grew louder, and suddenly, we were surrounded by a whirlwind of camaraderie.

“Yes, compadre!” El Chupacabra shouted as he barreled towards us, his grin wide.

“Magnifique, Percy!” Rochelle’s Canadian French accent sang in my ears as she reached us, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

“You really kicked his bottom, lad!” Bulldog said, slapping me on the back so hard I thought I’d fly back into the sky.

An official in a blue polo with a Wings Around the Globe logo stepped out of the chaos, his voice cutting through the din. “Mr. Jackson, if you would please follow me to the victory lane for the award ceremony?”

I nodded, still in a daze, and allowed him to guide me through the throng of people and planes. The air was thick with the scent of exhaust fumes and the electricity of victory. The official led me to a red carpet, lined with photographers and cameramen, their flashes going off like a barrage of paparazzi fireworks. The grandstand loomed over us, a wall of faces and cheers that seemed to stretch into infinity.

As I approached the podium, the crowd's roar grew deafening. Each step I took felt like it echoed through my soul, a symphony of triumph and disbelief.

I stepped onto the podium, and standing there were Brent Musburger and a man wearing the same uniform as the official who’d led me there.

After giving the crowd a moment to settle down, the official began to speak. "Ladies and gentlemen, this has truly been the most unpredictable running of the Wings Around the Globe Rally in its storied history!" The crowd erupted again, their excitement palpable. "But it is with great honor and pleasure that I announce your winner, the first pilot under the age of 21 to compete in the event ever, let alone to win it—#7, from Manhattan, New York, United States of America—Perseus ‘Percy’ Jackson!"

The applause grew deafening as the official handed me the trophy. It was a gleaming work of art, the silver base reflecting the setting sun, the curved stem arcing gracefully to support the globe, and the miniature plane perched atop it, and on the base said, ‘Wings Around the Globe Rally Champion: Perseus Jackson #7 USA’.

But my eyes were drawn beyond the podium. Through the flashes of cameras and the sea of people, I saw a certain blue F4U Corsair that had a part of its tail wing torn off and the number 7 approaching the runway, its engines snarling with power.

It was Skipper.

He looked at me, and despite the speed he was going, I still saw him salute me before he landed his plane.

I looked over at Annabeth and she nodded, understanding in her eyes. She knew what I had to do. I handed her my trophy, the weight of it seemingly lighter than the joy that was about to unfold. She took it with a knowing smile, her eyes never leaving mine, a silent promise that she'd be waiting for me.

With newfound energy, I sprinted towards Skipper’s plane, my feet pounding against the tarmac, each step echoing the beating of my heart.

As I approached, I could see the grizzled old pilot climbing out of the cockpit, his face a mix of shock and pride. He staggered down the ladder, his movements surprisingly sprightly for someone his age.

Once he got down, we stood face to face, both of us smiling at the other.

“Thanks, Skip,” I said softly.

“Don’t thank me,” Skipper said, his eyes and voice filled with pride. “I learned a lot more from you than you ever learned from me.”

We both saluted each other, our gestures a silent tribute to the unbreakable bond forged in the skies. “Volo Pro Veritatae?” I asked, echoing the words of the motto from his squadron.

Skipper grinned, his teeth gleaming. “Volo Pro Veritatae. Now, go celebrate your victory. You've earned it.”

With a nod, I turned and sprinted back to the podium, the cheers of the crowd like a tailwind at my back.

When I returned to the top step of the podium, the crowd was still going wild, their cheers echoing through the air. The spray of champagne hit me, cold and unexpected, and I couldn't help but laugh, considering I was still a few years shy of the legal drinking age. The fizzy liquid cascaded over me, mixing with the sweat on my face and the dust from the race, creating a bizarre sensation that somehow encapsulated the surreal nature of the moment. The bubbles stung my eyes and the alcohol tickled my nose as I took it all in, feeling like I was living in a dream.

And then the confetti rained down, a storm of glittering paper and plastic, a colorful celebration that seemed to dance in the air as if it were alive with the excitement of the moment. It caught the light from the setting sun and painted the scene in a dazzling array of colors, making it feel like I was standing in the heart of a kaleidoscope. The bits of confetti stuck to my clothes, my hair, my face, and even got into my mouth, but I didn't care. I was the champion of the Wings Around the Globe Rally, and nothing could dampen my spirits.

As the applause and cheers grew even louder, Brent Musburger approached me, his microphone extended like a baton. He looked at me with an expression that was a mix of amazement and respect.

"Percy, you truly are an underdog story. A few weeks ago, you were in class at high school, and now you're standing here, the youngest ever champion in the history of the Wings Around the Globe Rally. What's going through your mind right now?" Brent Musburger shouted over the cacophony of the cheering crowd.

I leaned into the microphone. “I can’t believe this has happened. I can’t… And I just wanna thank my friends, who’ve constantly supported and rooted for me. I wanna thank Skipper, for training me. And I just wanna say one thing…”

I lifted the trophy in the air, looked at Annabeth, and yelled, “Yo Annabeth, I did it!”

The crowd erupted in cheers, my friends' faces lighting up with joy. Annabeth rolled her eyes playfully and waved back, holding the trophy in one hand and her camera in the other, snapping pictures of the historic moment.

My gaze drifted up to the jumbotron that towered over the grandstands, displaying the final results of the race in stark, gleaming letters.

1. Me #7–USA
2. El Chupacabra #5–Mexico
3. Rochelle #22–Canada
4. Bulldog #11–UK
5. Ishani #6–India
6. Miguel #16–Brazil
7. Van Der Bird #55–Netherlands
8. Tsubasa #23–Japan
9. Antonio #47–Spain
10. Arturo #3–Italy
11. Sun Wing #8–China
12. Little King #14–Ireland
13. Jan Kowalski #15–Poland
14. Yellow Bird #17–USA
15. Kolya Ivanov #19–Russia
16. Ripslinger #13–USA (DSQ)
17. Ned #0–New Zealand (DSQ)
18. Zed #00–New Zealand (DSQ)
19. Veichi #1–Turkey (DSQ)
20. Gunnar Viking #12–Sweden (DSQ)
21. Joey Dundee #9–Australia (DNF).

‘Wait’, I thought, ‘Ripslinger, Ned, and Zed had been disqualified?’

But before I could ask about it, a certain man in a green, black, and orange pilot’s uniform stomped towards us, his face red with rage. That's right, it was Ripslinger. He looked like he'd just swallowed a mouthful of sour grapes and was about to spit them out at the nearest person.

"You can't do this!" he bellowed, pointing a finger at the official standing next to me. "I demand to know why we've been disqualified!"

The official's smile remained plastered on his face, unyielding. "Mr. Michael, I'm afraid that we’ve finally figured out how Mr. Jackson’s radio had been tampered with. You had Ned and Zed buzz him and knock off his antenna. We also are aware of your actions in Deadstick Desert, including you pushing Mr. Jackson towards the ground and slicing off part of the tail wing of Mr. Riley.”

“But that guy interfered with the race!” Ripslinger spat, his eyes flickering between rage and disbelief.

“Indeed, Mr. Riley did interfere,” the official conceded, his voice steady and firm. “However, as we reviewed the footage from our cameras, it is clear that he only did so to save the life of Mr. Jackson. Your unsporting conduct, on the other hand, is a direct violation of race regulations and the spirit of the Wings Around the Globe Rally. Your actions endangered not just Mr. Jackson but all the competitors. Therefore, the decision stands—you and your teammates are disqualified from the race, and are banned from participating in all future editions of the rally.”

Ripslinger's face contorted into a furious snarl, but before he could say another word, he was whisked away by a group of burly security guards, his protests fading into the din of the crowd. The tension dissipated as the audience realized the drama was over, and the cheers grew louder as the focus returned to the podium, and more specifically, me.

As champagne began to spray again, and confetti resumed raining down onto the podium, I looked up at the sky and whispered, “We did it.”

Chapter Text

The next day (Saturday), I sat in my apartment on the couch when, out of nowhere, Hermes decided to flash in.

“Hey, cous’!” Hermes said, his usual grin spreading across his face as he looked at the chaos that was my apartment. “Nice to see you haven’t let fame go to your head,” he joked, glancing around at the homework papers and half-read textbooks scattered across the floor.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, it’s been a wild ride,” I said, still in disbelief that the quest had led me to this moment.

“I’m not going to lie. When I gave you the quest for you to compete in the Wings Around the Globe Rally, I didn’t expect you to win it,” Hermes said, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Yeah, I think you might’ve underestimated us a bit,” I replied, smiling. “Anyway, you got a recommendation letter for me to go to New Rome?”

Hermes snapped his fingers, and a paper appeared in my hand. It was a sleek, crisp page with gold-embossed letters that read 'New Rome University' at the top. The paper was heavier than it should’ve been, and as I unfolded it, a faint scent of ambrosia tickled my nose. “Read it, Percy. It’s your ticket in.”

It read:

‘Dear New Rome University,

I, Hermes, messenger of the gods and god of travelers, trade, and thieves, do hereby recommend Perseus ‘Percy’ Jackson, son of Poseidon, for enrollment into your esteemed institution. Not only is he a war hero twice over, having fought in the second Titan and Giant Wars, and is the greatest hero ever, but he also recently demonstrated exceptional skill and courage in the Wings Around the Globe Rally. If you weren’t aware of him competing in it or even what it is, let me fill you in: it’s the most intense and dangerous aerial race in the world, traveling through the Himalayas and over the Pacific Ocean.

And he won. Yes, that’s right. He won the darn thing, despite all the odds considering he was only 17 and had just learned to fly a few weeks ago, and he had been powerless. Yes, he had no powers for the entire race.

Percy Jackson should be at the top of your list for any program you offer. His bravery, intelligence, and sheer will to win are unmatched by any mortal or demigod. He’s got a head on his shoulders that would make Athena proud, and a heart that’s as big as the sea itself—thanks to his dad, I suppose.

Sincerely,
Hermes’.

I looked up at him, a mix of shock and amusement on my face. “Wow, Hermes, you really know how to lay it on thick, huh?”

Hermes just shrugged, his grin widening. “Hey, I’m the god of trickery. I’ve got to make sure my letters do their job.”

“Well, it’s definitely going to get noticed,” I said, still in awe of the over-the-top praise.

“Now, I know you’re eager to get to New Rome, but before you do, I should let you know that there’s a certain ship in the Pacific Ocean that you and Skipper should go visit,” he said with a wink, and I knew what he was talking about. “Also…”

He snapped his fingers, and in my hand appeared a USB drive. It was orange and blue, with a tiny number 7 on the side.

I looked up at him. "What's this?"

"Ah, that's a little something that me and Apollo made. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

And with that, he disappeared in a flash of golden light.

Chapter Text

That night, Annabeth came over to my apartment. She looked at me with a mix of pride and excitement in her eyes. "So, did you get the letter, champ?" she asked, her voice echoing the energy of the crowd from the day before.

I nodded, holding up the crumpled paper. "It's something else, huh?" I said, still not quite believing it was real.

Annabeth took it from me and scanned the words, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "Wow, Hermes really made sure it was persuasive." She handed it back with a grin. "But you know what this means, right?"

I nodded. “That’s it for getting recommendation letters from the gods. Now we can go to New Rome together.”

Annabeth looked over at my shelf, where right beside a picture of my late mom and stepdad was the silver trophy from the race.

“I still can’t believe you actually won, Seaweed Brain, and with no powers?” Annabeth teased, poking my side gently. I pretended to be offended but the truth was, I couldn’t believe it either. The race had been a whirlwind of danger and excitement, but standing here in my living room with the trophy gleaming under the lamplight, it felt like a dream.

She then looked at the table in front of my couch and saw the USB drive. “What’s that?”

I picked it up, turning it over in my hand. “It’s from Hermes. He said it’s something him and Apollo made, and said I’ll love it.”

Curiosity piqued, Annabeth leaned in closer. “Well, don’t just sit there. Plug it in!”

I inserted the USB into my computer and clicked on the only file. The screen flickered, and suddenly, a black screen with yellow text appeared on the screen.

“Percy,” I heard Hermes’ voice begin, “to show our appreciation for all you’ve done for Olympus, Apollo and I have created two music videos for you. The first is specifically regarding your incredible victory in the Wings Around the Globe Rally, and the second, well, it’s a little more personal. We hope you enjoy them as much as we enjoyed watching your epic adventures unfold!”

The screen changed, and the opening chords of a hard rock song blared through my speakers. The footage that played was a montage from the my run at the qualifiers in Watkins Glen, where it all had begun.

Then, the song properly began.

“Feel the passion ignite me
Feel it burning inside me,” it started, switching to show me exiting the tunnel and walking onto the runway of JFK Airport with the rest of the racers.

“I won't let this life just pass me by,” the lyrics continued, as the video montage switched to the actual start of the race, all of us racers beginning to take off.

“Gonna start a revolution!
Go by the name hero
Take back control
Yeah, here I go!” it continued, switching to when I was right behind Bulldog in Bavaria, and him beginning to lose altitude.

“Today I've gotta make a change!
Straight to the top, I'm on my way!
And I was meant for so much more!
And I found a dream worth fighting for!
And nothing can stop me!
Nothing can stop me now!” it went on, showing a montage of me helping Bulldog when he became blinded by oil.

“All I need is a horizon
Courage to keep trying
Awakened I
Feel so alive!” it continued, switching to show when I climbed through the field up to eighth during the leg to India.

“Today I've gotta make a change!
Straight to the top, I'm on my way!
And I was meant for so much more!
And I found a dream worth fighting for!
And nothing can stop me!
Nothing can stop me now!
Can stop me now!” The video then showed my risky maneuver in the Himalayas, deciding to go through the tunnel, and end up in first place.

During the interlude, it showed my trials during the leg from Beijing to Mexic City, including having my antenna knocked off, being rescued by the Jolly Rogers, and my accident during the storm.

“Today I've gotta make a change!
Straight to the top, I'm on my way!
And I was meant for so much more!
And I found a dream worth fighting for!
And nothing can stop me!
Nothing can stop me!
Nothing can stop me!
Nothing can stop me now!
Can stop me now!” The footage switched to show the final leg back to New York, including my passing everyone, me and Skipper’s dogfight against Ripslinger, Ned, and Zed, my conquering my fear of heights, and finally, my last second pass on Ripslinger to win the Wings Around the Globe Rally.

And then, the first music video ended, and an old school movie countdown thing went from 5, to 4, and all the way to 1, and the second video began playing.

It started with a soft guitar melody. A shot of me standing on the beach at Camp Half-Blood faded in. The text faded in as well: ‘Oldies Station—A Tribute To Percy Jackson’.

“Only consistency in your periphery
Is fear and the bridge of your nose.”

It showed a quick montage of my battles with Kronow, Akhlys, and Gaea. It showed my eyes narrowing, sweat and blood on my face, focused on survival.

“And as you move about, you learn to tune them out
But they say they continue to grow.”

These lyrics played in the background as the video showed scenes of me walking through the bustling camp of Half-Blood, my eyes unfocused and distant. The faces of my friends and fellow campers passed by in a blur—each one a reminder of the battles we'd faced together. The flashbacks grew more intense: my mom's screams, the moment Luke betrayed us, the bloody battle with Gaea—each image briefly flickering over my shoulder like a shadow. The weight of those memories was always with me, but over the years, I had learned to tune them out, to keep moving forward.

“Fear of the past and relative pain
Future's comin' fast, you've got nothin' in the tank.”

The video cut to a scene of me lying in a hospital bed at the Big House, my eyes closed and my breathing shallow. My face was pale, and my body was bruised from the battles we had fought. The camera zoomed in closer, and the bruises grew sharper, each one a testament to the battles I had won and the scars I had earned. The quiet hum of the medical machinery was the only sound, a stark contrast to the adrenaline-filled race sequences that had come before.

Then, it went and showed me underwater, floating in the serene embrace of the sea. It was a stark contrast to the hospital bed; my eyes were open but empty, and the saltwater filled my lungs without a single struggle. The waves gently rocked me back and forth, and the only sound was the soft, rhythmic pulse of the ocean.

“In a season of purging things you used to love
Everything must go.”

The lyrics of the music video played softly as the screen transitioned to show a series of old family photos scattered across my desk. Each image was a window into a time when life was simpler, before prophecies and battles with gods and monsters had become my norm. In one, I was a toddler in my mother’s arms, her eyes shining with love and hope for the future.

“Make an oath, then make mistakes
Start a streak you're bound to break.”

The video cut to a scene of me with one hand over my heart and the other raised. Then, thunder boomed, and I knew I’d made an oath on River Styx. It switched to the sight of a friend falling to their doom during one of our battles. The camera lingered on my expression, the guilt and regret written clear as day on my face. I watched as my digital self stood there, frozen, unable to save them.

“When darkness rolls on you
Push on through
Push on through.”

The words of the song echoed in my mind as Annabeth and I faced several monsters. The camera zoomed in on my face, to show my determined expression.

“Then before you know, you lose some people close
Forcing you to manage your pace.”

The video abruptly switched to a silent montage, the screen flickering through moments of pain and loss. Silena’s tragic last stand during the Battle of Manhattan, her eyes filled with both courage and sorrow as she made her ultimate sacrifice. The image of Beckendorf’s explosion, a fiery silhouette against the night sky, his love for Silena and loyalty to his friends a stark reminder of the high price of victory. And then, my mom and stepdad’s funeral, which had only happened just a few months ago. I saw me standing still, while everything else moved in slow motion.

“Found your capacity for love and tragedy
Embracing how things always change.”

The music video switched to show me, Annabeth, and Grover sitting on a hill, overlooking the beach at Camp Half-Blood. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the scene. We were all leaning on each other, looking exhausted but content. Grover had his hand on my shoulder, and Annabeth was leaning her head on my other shoulder. Then a faint calendar overlay appeared on the screen, the pages flipping rapidly, each one representing a year that had passed, a symbol of time marching on despite the battles and trials we had endured.

“You've had your turns with (relative pain)
Little less concerned when there's (nothin' in the tank).”

It switched to a shot of me sitting on the floor of my cabin, the lights dimmed and a solitary candle flickering. I was bandaging a gash on my arm, the blood seeping through the cloth. My eyes were closed, and I was breathing in deeply, trying to push the pain away. Each inhale brought in the scent of the ocean from the candle, a comforting reminder of home. When I exhaled, it was as if I could feel the weight of the world on my shoulders, but I had to keep going. I had to be ready for whatever the Fates threw at me next.

The screen faded to black for a brief moment before the next scene began.

“In a season of lessons learned in giving up
You learn what you can and can't take.”

The video played on, the words of the song resonating deeply within me as I watched the montage of moments where I had felt utterly defeated, only to rise again. It showed a close-up of my scarred hands, gripping the hilt of Riptide, my sword. Each scar a story of a battle, a victory, a loss.

“Add some years, build some trust
You start to feel your eyes adjust.”

The screen faded in, revealing me in my late teens, standing in front of a group of young demigods, all eager and anxious. I was holding Riptide, the celestial bronze sword that had been my constant companion through countless battles, now serving as a tool of wisdom and guidance. Annabeth, by my side, offered a comforting smile as she held her own sword.

“When darkness rolls on you
Push on through
Push on through.”

The screen flashed a series of images: me, standing in the Olympian Throne Room as I faced the might of Kronos; me, my eyes glowing Scar’s-eyes green, blood red, and golden, standing in front of Gaea, about to avenge my mom and stepdad’s deaths; me in the cockpit of my plane, the world spinning around me as I perform the radial-g pass on Ripslinger.

But then, everything went dark again, and the music grew softer. “You don’t quite mind,” the lyrics whispered into the quiet room.

Then, this time more evident, it repeated, “You don’t quite mind.”

“You don’t quite mind how long red lights are takin' (push on through).”

The video went from black to the visual of a middle-aged me, my eyes soft and slightly wrinkled at the edges from the years of battles and heartaches. The light above me was red, but I didn’t quite mind. I was humming to the music playing through the speakers, a tune that was both nostalgic and comforting.

“Your favorite song was on the oldies station (push on through).”

The middle-aged me smiled and turned the volume of my car stereo up, the speakers filling the car with the nostalgic tune of the oldies station. An overlay appeared over the sight of the middle-aged me, revealing a younger me, probably around eight years old, sitting in a small, cluttered apartment with my mom. She was sitting on the couch, her eyes closed, lost in the music. I sat in her lap, my eyes wide and curious as I listened to her favorite songs.

“You have it down, that old fight for survival (push on through).”

The screen abruptly changed to a series of quick cuts—my sword flashing, monsters roaring, and friends fighting alongside me. The images blurred together, creating a chaotic collage of battles past and present. My eyes flickered with the light of the screen, each movement a reminder of the countless times I had faced danger and come out the other side.

“You’re there to welcome a new arrival (push on through).”

The scene shifted again, and now the video depicted me standing in a hospital room. Annabeth was lying on the hospital bed, her eyes looking down at something cradled in her arms. She was smiling warmly, a gentle glow surrounding her. I watched digital me look down as well, before me and Annabeth shared a tender kiss.

“Make an oath, then make mistakes
Start a streak you're bound to break.”

The final battle montage began to play, the music swelling in intensity as the images of war flashed across the screen. I stood tall, my eyes gleaming with determination as I surveyed the battlefield. I had come so far from the young demigod who had first stumbled into the world of Greek gods and monsters.

“When darkness rolls on you
Push on through.”

The scene shifted to me walking through a forest alone, the leaves crunching under my feet as the image showed me head on, the camera panning around to reveal the lush greenery that surrounded me. The sun filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. My expression was content, and determined, with a small smile.

Then, in perfect synchronization, Annabeth, Grover, Jason, Piper, Leo, Frank, Hazel, Reyna, Nico, Will, Thalia, Clarisse, Coach Hedge, Connor, Travis, Katie, Chiron, Skipper, and Sparky appeared and walked beside me, forming a tight-knit group as we walked through the forest. Each step we took together echoed through the trees, a testament to the unshakeable bond we had formed through years of battles and quests.

The screen faded to black, and the final text appeared, the words I had spoken to Tartarus, the personification of darkness and despair, when he had confronted Annabeth and me:

"Being brave isn’t the same as not feeling scared. Being brave is about what you do even when you do feel scared.”

The video ended with these words, and the screen went dark. The silence was deafening, and for a moment, I just sat there, trying to digest everything I had just seen. I couldn’t believe Hermes and Apollo had made this for me. It was… beautiful.

Annabeth leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Wow, Percy,” she murmured.

Just then, I remembered that Hermes had mentioned that me and Skipper needed to visit a certain ship in the Pacific Ocean.

I looked over at Annabeth with a grin and asked, “You wanna meet the people who saved my life?”

Chapter Text

The next day, somewhere in the North Pacific Ocean, me, Annabeth, and Skipper stood on the deck of the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower, the aircraft carrier that had been my salvation in the leg to Mexico City. The evening sky was a light orange, making the gray jets on the deck pop out sharply against it.

“Attention on deck,” a voice boomed over the intercom. “Victory!”

The entire crew of the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower snapped into a salute and repeated, “Victory!” Their faces were a mix of awe and respect as the three of us—Skipper, Annabeth, and I—stood at the edge of the aircraft carrier. The wind whipped our hair as we looked out over the vast expanse of the Pacific, the sun setting behind us painting the horizon a fiery orange.

Skipper’s eyes filled with emotion as he took in the sight of the new members of his old squadron. His hand shot up to his forehead in a crisp salute. “It’s an honor to be here,” he said, his voice carrying over the wind.

The captain of the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower, a stern-looking man with a silver mustache and a glint in his eye, approached us, his boots clacking against the metal deck. He stopped right in front of me.

“Percy Jackson, it’s an honor to have you aboard,” the captain of the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower announced as he approached us, his stern demeanor softening into a proud smile. “Your valor in the Wings Around the Globe Rally has not gone unnoticed, especially considering your little, erm, pit stop here during the leg to Mexico City. And so, it is with great pleasure that I award you an honorary membership to VFA-103, the Jolly Rogers.”

The sailors around us broke into applause, and my heart swelled with pride. It was one thing to be recognized by the gods and the demigod community, but to be acknowledged by the very people who had saved me during my darkest hour was something entirely different.

I saluted the captain in return, feeling the weight of the moment. “Volo Pro Veritate,” I said, echoing the squadron’s motto, which had become so much more than just words to me.

I looked back at my plane, with Skipper’s F4U Corsair right next to it. My plane had been repainted, now adorned with the black and gray livery of the Jolly Rogers.

I looked over at Skipper, who’d been watching. “You ready, wingman?” I asked him.

Skipper chuckled. “Roger that,” he told me.

We both walked over to our planes and climbed in. Annabeth sat in the seat behind me, and I handed her a headset.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Annabeth asked, a hint of amusement in her tone as I heard the click of the straps.

I smirked, turning around to give her a quick wink. “You know who you’re talking to? This is Percy Jackson. I can handle anything,” I quipped.

As me and Skipper’s propellers began to spin, I heard two buzzes in my headset, which meant two other people had gotten on our radio.

I looked down to the right to see Bravo and Echo smiling at me, wearing headsets of their own.

“An honorary Jolly Roger. How’s that feel, Percy?” Bravo’s voice crackled through the radio, a hint of laughter in his tone.

“Feels great!” I shouted over the roaring engines.

Echo looked over to Skipper’s plane on the other side of me. “Back in the saddle again, eh, Skipper?” he asked with a smile.

Skipper nodded, his eyes gleaming with a fierce light. “Well, they didn't have these fancy toys the last time I did this,” he said, referring to the catapults that we were currently being hooked up to.

“Nothing to it!” I assured Skipper. “They hook you up, you nod to the signalman over there…” I nodded towards the figure dressed in yellow standing by the side of the carrier, his hand poised to give us the go-ahead, “…and hang on!”

The signalman’s arm dropped, and the catapult flung us forward. The wind screamed past us, and the world outside the cockpit turned into a blur. We shot off the end of the carrier, my stomach dropping for a split second before the plane caught the air.

Annabeth screamed into the headset, her voice filled with exhilaration as we climbed into the sky. I couldn’t help but laugh, feeling the same rush of adrenaline. We soared over the ocean, the salty spray misting our faces as the ship grew smaller below us.

As we leveled out and turned towards the east, I glanced over at Skipper’s plane. He was flying so close, it was like we were joined at the wing. We locked eyes, and without a word, we both saluted each other.

“Last one to New York buys!” Skipper yelled over the radio.

“Haha, you’re on!” my voice crackled back, and with that, our planes shot forward in a daring race into the sunset.