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 Oliver Irons and the Original Fire (Just a little PJO/HOO Fanfiction)

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Age : 20
Registration date : 2017-06-20

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PostSubject: Oliver Irons and the Original Fire (Just a little PJO/HOO Fanfiction)    Oliver Irons and the Original Fire (Just a little PJO/HOO Fanfiction)  Icon_minitime6/20/2017, 9:05 pm

The thick, coppery taste in Oliver's mouth was getting annoying. The blood was slick against his tongue and teeth, and he had to spit it onto the concrete every so often so he didn't choke. The crescent moon above him bathed the battle torn alleyway in soft moonlight. The walls of the buildings rose around him, blocking him into the small, closed alcove. The ashes of the three hellhounds were already gone, blown away by some unfelt wind, but the evidence of their presence was unmistakable. Deep scores in the ground from where they had dug their claws into the concrete like it was butter and leapt through the air. That distinct, sulfuric stench that all creatures of the Underworld seemed to possess still hung in the air. The lasting, echoing howls that tore loose from their dying throat still rang in his ears, a promise to return and rip their quarry to shreds.
Oliver just sighed and struggled to stand, leaning heavily against his M14 as he made his way to his feet. The celestial bronze bayonet affixed to the end of the rifle was slick with monster blood, as was the stock from when he had cracked one of the beasts in the side of the head with it. He slowly bent down and put the weapon back in his duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder, limping out of the alleyway, the bandage around his leg miraculously still firm. He forgot the name of the town he was in, but it was small and out of the way so it was just fine. Oliver got a few odd looks as he made his way down the street, but no one stopped him. He didn't really blame them for the looks, he knew what they were seeing. A tall, stick thin twenty-something year old guy with grimy white skin and curly brown hair matted down with monster blood. Combined with the limp, the dirty brown jacket and the duffel bag, he probably looked like a stupid college kid 'seeing the world'. He wished.
As Oliver shuffled down the sidewalk, cars humming past him and lamps bearing down on him, a warm, slightly uncomfortable sensation began spreading across his chest. He glanced at the pendant dangling around his neck and, sure enough, it was giving off a soft orange glow. Soon after he felt the familiar tugging in his gut, urging him into a certain direction. He muttered to himself. "If you get the attention any more hellhounds I'm pawning you off."
The pendant seemed to huff as the tugging became almost painful. Oliver was about to make another remark when he came upon their destination. A Hampton Inn. It was a two story building with a large sign in front and a dense forest wrapped around the right side like a wall. He bit back a smile and trudged in through the door, his boots leaving thick black stains on the carpet. The lobby was nice, with a few pieces of comfortable looking chairs and couches, with a granite topped receptionist desk. Said receptionist was a pretty black woman in her thirties with tied back hair and a serious expression as she typed away at the computer in front of her. She looked up when she heard him approach. "Hi, how can-" her mandatory welcome was get short as she took in the sight before her. Oliver just gave her a tired smile, brown eyes warm with amusement. He held up a hand. "Now, before you say anything: Yes, I do look terrible, and no you don't need to call someone. Just... just give me a room, please?"
The receptionist just cocked her eyebrow at him, but glanced down at her computer screen to check the room listings anyway. "Well, room one twenty eight is open. Just down that hall, third on the left." She gestured down the hall and, after a moment's hesitation, spoke again. "How long will you be staying?"
Oliver thought about the for a second before shrugging. "Two or three days. I'll let you know if that changes."
The receptionist nodded and tapped away for a few seconds. "Name on the room?"
He hesitated a little, before throwing two names together. "Jason Grace."
"Payment method?"
Oliver reached into his jacket and pulled out a deep blue card with little to nothing on it. It was one of Prometheus' many gifts, an enchanted card that displayed anything the owner wished. After all, what was mortal currency to a Titan? The receptionist gave him an odd look as she typed away the information, but she didn't say anything.
She glanced at his filthy attire. "Would you like me to send someone down for your clothing, Mr. Grace?"
He gave her a grateful smile. "That would be great. Thanks."
She handed him his key, and he made his way down the nice hall to his room, locking, unlocking and locking the door behind him. Old habit. His room was nice, with one bed covered in a pristine white sheet, a nightstand next to it. A single window was set in the other wall, covered by thick white curtains. A door to one side lead to the bathroom and there was a small desk set against the left wall. Oliver hopped a monster didn't rip it apart. He limped over to the bed and set his duffel bag on the ground, before falling backwards onto the bed. It was soft and smelled like linen, and a soft groan escaped his throat as his muscles finally relaxed. Those hellhounds had been on his heels for the better part of a month, and it felt so, so good to be free of their awful, nightmare inducing keening every night. After a few minutes of relaxing he pushed himself to his feet and to the bathroom.
The clean, perfectly white tiles that covered the entire room almost blinded him when he turned on the light. There was a large mirror against one wall with a granite sink set in front of it, a toilet to one side and bathtub/shower combination on the other. Oliver peeled off his clothes, keeping the pendant around his neck, and carefully set them on his bed for the cleaning lady before closing the bathroom door and locking, unlocking and locking it again. As he waited for the shower to warm up he regarded himself in the mirror. But, try as he might, he couldn't keep his eyes from being drawn to one spot. Well, it wasn't so much as one spot so much as it was his entire torso. A long, jagged scar ran from his collarbone all the way down to his hip, four ugly claw marks. The skin was still inflamed from where the monster's poison had seeped in, burning away almost an inch of flesh and leaving behind a shallow groove on his body. Oliver could still hear it sometimes, that awful, high-pitched screech that ripped through the cold Vermont air like the beast ripped through his home, it's many heads thrashing with glee. He let out a shuddering breath and stepped into the shower
After scrubbing himself of the thick layer of blood and grim that coated his skin and washing the dried blood from his hair he stepped out of the shower smelling like cheap lavender shampoo and bodywash. His clothes were gone, so he changed into a plain white t-shirt and boxers from his bag, the only other outfit he possessed. He fell back onto the bed and carefully reapplied his bandages from some of the extras from his bag. The lights were off, his pendant glowing softly and giving him the only light he needed, his USP Match on the nightstand next to him, suppressor screwed tightly onto the barrel. Contrary to popular belief, he didn't go out cold the instant his head touched the pillow. Oliver remained awake for at least fifteen minutes, all of his senses working, seeking out any little abnormality in case something followed him here. When he did finally fall asleep, his sleep was shallow as not even his subconscious allowing him to fall into a state of unresponsiveness.
He was awoken suddenly by a sharp pain in his stomach and his pendant humming a high-pitched whine that hurt his ears. Before he could question it however, his vision changed. Everything appeared to be made of fire, writhing in an off-orange haze with the only exception being Oliver's body, which was a bright blue. As he watched, a form that burned a hateful blood red crashed through the window. The unmistakable outline of a hellhound reared on it's haunches and opened it's wide maw, filled with razor teeth. Abruptly the vision ended, and Oliver blinked away the fiery afterimages before letting out a curse and rolling off the bed, grabbing his handgun from the nightstand as he did so. Pain raced up his injured leg as he hit the ground at a bad angle but he bit back a cry of pain as he carefully chambered a bullet, the celestial bronze winking back at him in the soft light of his pendant.
Not a moment too soon.
The hellhound crashed through the window of his room, the glass shattering under the force of a half-ton of hell beast. Thankfully, and a bit comedically, the beast did not take into account one for important feature of the room: the curtains. Oliver watched, small grin on his face, as the monstrous hound thrashed around on the ground, desperately trying to claw off the stark white shroud that covered it. Oliver muttered to himself. "Really? More hellhounds?"
His pendant only buzzed indignantly.
Oliver sighed and brought up his handgun, putting where he thought the beast's head was in that mass of white. Just as he pulled the trigger however, something massive slammed into him from the side and he was sent bodily to the floor, the .45 round punching a fist-sized hole in the floor next to the trapped beast. Oliver shook the stars out of his vision and looked up at the second hellhound perched on his bed, teeth bared. The two looked at each other for several long seconds, before the faint clicking of the door being unlocked suddenly filled the air. A vaguely Spanish accented voice followed a maid into the room, carrying a small hamper of his now-clean clothes. "Mr. Grace? Your clothes are-" her sentence died in her throat as her eyes fell upon the hellhound.
While Oliver wasn't sure what she was seeing, it couldn't have been good as she dropped the hamper and began telling in Spanish, running down the hall. Oliver took his chance and brought his handgun up, putting a bullet into the hellhound's jaw as it was about to chase the poor maid down. The beast whimpered as it exploded into dust and he made his way back to his feet, putting a second bullet through the other hellhound. He let out a sigh and picked up his hamper, shutting the door and locking, unlocking and locking it again. He got changed as quickly as possible as the police sirens closed in from down the street. He holstered his handgun, shouldered his duffel bag and climbed out of the window as the unmistakable sound of boots marching down the hall. Rain pelted down on him, the red and blue flashes of the police cruisers lighting up the sky. Oliver sighed and ran off into the forest, already soaking and cold and irritable. He looked down glumly at his jacket. "And I just got this cleaned."
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