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![Stuck [private] Empty](https://2img.net/i/empty.gif)
by Davis 1/27/2015, 3:09 pmHow the hell did he always get himself into these sorts of messes?
Asher clung to the armrest's striped vinyl fabric, fingers curling into the underside with visible distress. He shifted frequently, gaze lingering on the ceiling, the floor, counting seats, to his toes, to the ceiling again, literally anywhere but the window. The first move he made upon boarding the plane was brush the curtains closed, shielding his sight from the grand heights they flew from, soaring over white cotton clouds in a stretch of blue sky that most others might find absolutely stunning. To Asher, it was rubbish, all of it. How he found himself on a path for Australia, he'd never quite know. "You're all gonna die if you don't have a medic," He muttered under his breath, repeating the bitter words he'd spoken a few days prior in camp, as demigods chattered giddily to one another in secret, straying from Chiron's watchful eye to plan their great huntsman's journeys. Today marked the start of six long, brutal weeks in which each of the competing teams would scatter worldwide, sifting through minotaur and hydra to find the biggest, most dangerous beasts they possible could, behead the creature, and lug it back like a war trophy to the others for bragging purposes. The winners would win some sort of greek apparel... Crimson laurels, or whatever.
Asher rolled his eyes and propped his elbow up, knuckles crunching under the weight of his cheek. The air conditioner, easily ten years old sputtered and wheezed above him, the breeze fussing about the tip of his moehawk. This sucked. What idiot put their life on the line for a dinky headpiece?
Apparently half of his camp's idiots, that's who. Probably more, had they found the hidden invitations scattered across the grounds, stuffed into every nook and cranny. Astonishingly enough, there were some notes that hadn't been found, left to decay in tree roots and pillow cases until the end of time. His mind briefly drifted to the elderly centaur, and whether he'd caught wind of the competition yet. Probably. But their entire group had escaped unscathed, fleeing from the woods early in the morning, hopping a ride to the airport and taking their little private beat-up plane across the frickin' world. So Chiron either didn't know, or didn't have the forces to stop every group.
Asher would swear to the very end of time that he came only to keep his sibling and her halfwit accomplices alive. So far, though, he'd been practically useless. Someone else had nabbed the tickets and forged passports, another had hailed their ride. His only real contribution had been packing supplies for the group: several first aid kits, a tarp, a tent, matches, food and water rations in case things got bad, a lantern, several flashlights and batteries. In his personal luggage, he had some spare clothes & hygiene supplies, a book he'd been reading before he left, and of course, his hook swords, the latter having been very difficult to load onto the plane with any subtlety.
His legs fidgeted under a light cloth blanket, feet tapping furiously, and he glanced towards the pilot's cabin with a scowl. For the price paid, a flight attendant could at least get him a drink. Perhaps scotch to calm his nerves. That was allowed over international waters, right? At fifteen? Or maybe not. The lightest turbulence rumbled the pain, leaving his heart in a tantrum racking against the back of his chest and breath caught in his throat. He chewed his bottom lip, every muscle rigid. Gods! This was terrible. Had Asher ever mentioned he hated heights? Because he hated heights. Of course they couldn't just take a boat to Australia. Maybe a nice Carnival cruise, with water slides, magic shows and a dining hall open 24/7. That would've been too nice, hm? Had to rough it with a scruffy, brusque appearing pilot who smelled like beef jerky and life mistakes. Naturally.
"Are we there yet?" He groaned aloud, already familiar with the answer on account of asking five minutes ago (no.)
Asher clung to the armrest's striped vinyl fabric, fingers curling into the underside with visible distress. He shifted frequently, gaze lingering on the ceiling, the floor, counting seats, to his toes, to the ceiling again, literally anywhere but the window. The first move he made upon boarding the plane was brush the curtains closed, shielding his sight from the grand heights they flew from, soaring over white cotton clouds in a stretch of blue sky that most others might find absolutely stunning. To Asher, it was rubbish, all of it. How he found himself on a path for Australia, he'd never quite know. "You're all gonna die if you don't have a medic," He muttered under his breath, repeating the bitter words he'd spoken a few days prior in camp, as demigods chattered giddily to one another in secret, straying from Chiron's watchful eye to plan their great huntsman's journeys. Today marked the start of six long, brutal weeks in which each of the competing teams would scatter worldwide, sifting through minotaur and hydra to find the biggest, most dangerous beasts they possible could, behead the creature, and lug it back like a war trophy to the others for bragging purposes. The winners would win some sort of greek apparel... Crimson laurels, or whatever.
Asher rolled his eyes and propped his elbow up, knuckles crunching under the weight of his cheek. The air conditioner, easily ten years old sputtered and wheezed above him, the breeze fussing about the tip of his moehawk. This sucked. What idiot put their life on the line for a dinky headpiece?
Apparently half of his camp's idiots, that's who. Probably more, had they found the hidden invitations scattered across the grounds, stuffed into every nook and cranny. Astonishingly enough, there were some notes that hadn't been found, left to decay in tree roots and pillow cases until the end of time. His mind briefly drifted to the elderly centaur, and whether he'd caught wind of the competition yet. Probably. But their entire group had escaped unscathed, fleeing from the woods early in the morning, hopping a ride to the airport and taking their little private beat-up plane across the frickin' world. So Chiron either didn't know, or didn't have the forces to stop every group.
Asher would swear to the very end of time that he came only to keep his sibling and her halfwit accomplices alive. So far, though, he'd been practically useless. Someone else had nabbed the tickets and forged passports, another had hailed their ride. His only real contribution had been packing supplies for the group: several first aid kits, a tarp, a tent, matches, food and water rations in case things got bad, a lantern, several flashlights and batteries. In his personal luggage, he had some spare clothes & hygiene supplies, a book he'd been reading before he left, and of course, his hook swords, the latter having been very difficult to load onto the plane with any subtlety.
His legs fidgeted under a light cloth blanket, feet tapping furiously, and he glanced towards the pilot's cabin with a scowl. For the price paid, a flight attendant could at least get him a drink. Perhaps scotch to calm his nerves. That was allowed over international waters, right? At fifteen? Or maybe not. The lightest turbulence rumbled the pain, leaving his heart in a tantrum racking against the back of his chest and breath caught in his throat. He chewed his bottom lip, every muscle rigid. Gods! This was terrible. Had Asher ever mentioned he hated heights? Because he hated heights. Of course they couldn't just take a boat to Australia. Maybe a nice Carnival cruise, with water slides, magic shows and a dining hall open 24/7. That would've been too nice, hm? Had to rough it with a scruffy, brusque appearing pilot who smelled like beef jerky and life mistakes. Naturally.
"Are we there yet?" He groaned aloud, already familiar with the answer on account of asking five minutes ago (no.)
