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by The Climbing wall was among Sawyer's favorite things at Camp Half-Blood, along with the Forge, the basket ball court, and of course her own cabin. She felt nowhere more at home than in her room in the basement -- well, except the little flat she shared with her mother in Corpus-Christi. Those were both her homes.
The muscular Brazilian was walking with some guys of her cabin towards the wall. She loved it for two reasons: a) she enjoyed climbing and b) there was lava. She was probably the only kid here who had never been afraid that a cartload of lava might be emptied on her head. She was fire-proof when she concentrated hard enough, but she was totally immune to lava, no doubt because of her powers.
She was dressed in a grey Brooklyn graphic T-Shirt, a pair of camouflage shorts and muddy sport shoes, all her clothes having oil or grease stains and burn marks. The ugly Latino had strapped her large modern axe to her back -- you never knew -- and stepped towards the climbing wall, who rumbled and shook. The brown skin of her trained, corded biceps was gleaming in the sunlight, and so did the deep scars, bruises, burns, blisters and edemas that covered her from head to toe. The large burn on the side of her face glistened as the sun shone on it and she passed her large hand through her lackluster, greasy hair, keeping them backwards messily with a U.S. army bandana. The pockets of her camouflage shorts were stuffed with waste metal, screws, gears, bolts and wires, so she sat on a rock and took some out, fiddling with them while they waited for the other cabin to arrive. In a minute, she had screwed together the automaton of a falcon who rested on her shoulder before spotting a little mouse at the edge of his vision, taking off at once and flying straight at it, his wings turning into sharply edged blades.
"Oh dammit," Sawyer grumbled in her hoarse voice and jogged after her automaton. She pulled one wire and the thing crumpled to pieces, which she picked up and stuffed back into her pockets. Why did her predator automatons always have to attack small animals, huh? It wasn't like they were real predators or what.
The muscular Brazilian was walking with some guys of her cabin towards the wall. She loved it for two reasons: a) she enjoyed climbing and b) there was lava. She was probably the only kid here who had never been afraid that a cartload of lava might be emptied on her head. She was fire-proof when she concentrated hard enough, but she was totally immune to lava, no doubt because of her powers.
She was dressed in a grey Brooklyn graphic T-Shirt, a pair of camouflage shorts and muddy sport shoes, all her clothes having oil or grease stains and burn marks. The ugly Latino had strapped her large modern axe to her back -- you never knew -- and stepped towards the climbing wall, who rumbled and shook. The brown skin of her trained, corded biceps was gleaming in the sunlight, and so did the deep scars, bruises, burns, blisters and edemas that covered her from head to toe. The large burn on the side of her face glistened as the sun shone on it and she passed her large hand through her lackluster, greasy hair, keeping them backwards messily with a U.S. army bandana. The pockets of her camouflage shorts were stuffed with waste metal, screws, gears, bolts and wires, so she sat on a rock and took some out, fiddling with them while they waited for the other cabin to arrive. In a minute, she had screwed together the automaton of a falcon who rested on her shoulder before spotting a little mouse at the edge of his vision, taking off at once and flying straight at it, his wings turning into sharply edged blades.
"Oh dammit," Sawyer grumbled in her hoarse voice and jogged after her automaton. She pulled one wire and the thing crumpled to pieces, which she picked up and stuffed back into her pockets. Why did her predator automatons always have to attack small animals, huh? It wasn't like they were real predators or what.
