Chapter Text
Percy again. Look, I know you’re here for Simon’s story, not mine, but someone’s gotta tell it. And don’t hope it’s Maya next time.
Trust me, after you hear what this dude’s been through, you’ll understand why I volunteered—apart that he’s practically my mom’s best friend and my… mhm, i’ll explain later.
Point is, he makes my quests look like a walk in the park. And hey, at least I never had to deal with a skunk in a training pit.
Let’s get to it.
…
“Simon, duck!”
Simon Thorn took one look at the gigantic moose swinging its antlers at his head, and he hit the sand beneath him hard, covering his hairclip with a palm. Typical, he thought, his heart jackhammering against his ribs. Morning training with Malcolm: part boot camp, part potential concussion.
He scrambled toward the edge of the pit, his eyes fixed on the moose as it threw its head back and laughed. A laughing moose. Just another Tuesday.
“What are your options, Simon?” said his uncle Malcolm from the bleachers. Simon, huddled against the cold stone, shot him a look. The man was whittling a piece of wood, for Zeus’s sake. He looked about as concerned as a statue.
My options? Simon’s mind raced. Cry. Vanish into thin air. Turn into something with a lot of teeth. But he couldn’t do the last one. Not here. Not in front of them.
“Yeah, Simon,” taunted the moose, prancing closer. The voice was unmistakable: Nolan. “How are you going to get out of this one?”
Simon climbed to his feet, his knees wobbly. He was small for twelve, all sharp angles and nervous energy, a contrast to the solid, looming presence of his uncle. He adjusted the black armband of his L.A.I.R. uniform—a one-piece tracksuit that Maya would’ve hated—turning the white eagle insignia inwards, a habitual gesture of concealment.
“Run,” Simon said flatly. It was the most honest answer he had.
“You can’t run now. Try again,” said Malcolm, not looking up from his whittling.
He’s right, Simon thought with a sinking feeling. He was trapped in the pit, and beneath the pit, trapped in the L.A.I.R.—the Leading Animalgam Institute for the Remarkable, a secret school under the Central Park Zoo for kids who could turn into animals. Him. He was one of them. Some days, he still couldn’t believe it.
For most of his life in his Upper West Side apartment, Simon had just been… Simon. The kid with the postcards from a mom who was never there, the one who mostly lived with his scary-soft uncle Darryl and whose found family was a riot of emo-punk-rock love and demigod drama.
He’d been the academically preppy one in a family of grunge aesthetic, his subtle nod to the style a few band patches on his backpack and the constellation hair clip—a Gemini, for the twins—that held his stubborn curl back. Maya’s gift. It was a tiny, precious piece of home pressed against his skull.
Then, a year ago, he’d started understanding what animals said. He’d told only Luke, Maya and Camp. Never Darryl. He was sure he was cracking up. But he wasn’t crazy. He was an Animalgam. The night he saw Darryl shift into a massive gray wolf in their book-cluttered, fairy-lit living room was the night his old life ended.
Now, instead of pre-algebra and preparing for college to become a hard-working citizen of the world, he was figuring out how not to get gored by his twin brother disguised as a moose.
“Fight?” Simon guessed weakly, his vision blurring from not blinking. The moose’s antlers looked like deadly, bony trees.
“Against those antlers? I don’t think so,” Malcolm mused.
“I’m not shifting,” Simon said firmly, inching toward the narrow exit. His secret screamed in his veins. I could, it said. I could be anything right now. But I can’t let you see.
“You need to get over this sooner or later, Simon,” Malcolm said, finally setting his whittling down. “You can’t ignore your Animalgam form forever.”
Watch me, Simon thought. Out loud, he muttered, “At least I’m not a moose.”
The moose made a sound like a deflating balloon. “You don’t like my antlers? Fine. Let’s see how you like this.”
The change happened in a blur of collapsing form and reforming matter. One second, antlers; the next, a skunk with a bushy, raised tail.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me. Simon bolted for the door. The handle didn’t budge. Locked. “Malcolm!”
“Can’t have anyone walking in,” his uncle said, infuriatingly reasonable.
The skunk waddled closer. “Guess what I can do.”
“I know what you can do. You don’t need to prove it.” Simon’s back was against the door. The only way out was up.
“I had a lot of beans for dinner last night,” the skunk said, turning its rear. “I think I feel a massive fart coming on.”
“Nolan!” Malcolm barked, standing up.
But it was too late. Simon lunged, leaping right over the skunk as a truly horrific cloud of stink erupted. Gagging, he scrambled up the bleachers like a mountain goat, the smell clinging to him like a curse.
“I’m trying to make him fly, like you said!” the skunk—Nolan—said, his voice muffled by his form.
“Try shifting back into a human and seeing how you like it,” Simon choked out from the top row, fixing his slipping hairclip.
“You’re just being a baby.” And with a huff, the skunk began to change again. Fur receded, limbs lengthened, and where the animal had been stood a boy.
Simon’s twin.
The air left Simon’s lungs, same as it did every time. It wasn’t just the resemblance—it was the identity. The same blue eyes, the same ears that stuck out a little, the same slant of the eyebrows. It was like looking into a mirror that reflected a life he never lived. A life here, in the Den, with their mother.
I have a brother. Simon stared, something he’d been doing for the past few months he’s been there. The thought was still a fresh wound, two months old. A real, blood twin. Not like…
Luke. The one who looked so much like him it was uncanny, the one who’d lived in their apartment more than his own, the one who was gone now. A different kind of gone.
A memory flashed, warm and sharp as a knife.
The summer air was thick with humidity and the smell of gyros from the cart two blocks over. Simon, all of nine years old and barely reaching Luke's waist, climbed onto his back, wrapping his legs around Luke’s torso.
From the fire escape above, Maya's voice rang out: "If you're going to do something stupid, do it where I can watch!"
She was already climbing down, all bony elbows and sharp attitude, her dark hair a mess as usual. At eleven, she was already convinced she was too old for their nonsense, but she never missed an opportunity to join in.
Luke had produced the winged shoes from his bag—scuffed bronze and leather, the straps worn from years of use. He'd had them since his own quest at sixteen, and they'd seen better days, but they still worked. Mostly.
"Trust me?" Luke asked, holding out his hand to Simon.
Simon didn't hesitate. "Always."
He'd barely gotten the word out before Luke scooped him up, activated the shoes, and launched them both off the fire escape.
The city tilted. The sky rushed toward them. Simon's stomach dropped out of his body and kept falling.
Maya, never one to be left out, had somehow scaled the fire escape and launched herself at them mid-flight. Luke caught her with his free arm, grunting at the impact.
"You're heavier than you look!"
"You're slower than you should be!"
They wobbled dangerously. Simon shrieked with laughter. Below, the Lin Abbott-Holland-Thorn were now being joined by actual Hollands—as in, the restaurant owners, Darryl's adoptive parents since he was an adult, who had come outside to see what the commotion was about.
"LUKE! MAYA! SIMON!" Darryl's voice cracked on Simon's name. He was running now, chasing them down the street like a very muscular, very distressed mother hen.
Ajax appeared in the bistro doorway, took one look at the situation, and calmly pulled out his phone to record. "This is going in the family group chat."
"ALEXANDER ISKANDER LIN ABBOTT, YOU PUT THAT PHONE DOWN AND HELP ME!"
"I am helping. I'm documenting."
Darryl made a sound of pure frustration and kept running.
Up in the air, the three siblings were having the time of their lives.
"Bank left!" Maya shouted.
"I'm flying, not driving!"
"Same difference!"
"It is NOT the same—"
A pigeon got too close. Simon swatted at it. Luke wobbled. Maya shrieked.
"Ack!" Simon yelled horrified as the pigeon veered off.
"We are NOT eating street pigeons!" Maya smacked his arm.
"They're free!" Luke yelled, pretending to catch one as it flew away.
"They're DISGUSTING!"
”It’s a historical Greek dish.” Simon provided helpfully despite his heart now being in his stomach, before Luke swerved away from a building they were gonna crash into. “Chiron’d be proud if we did. Probably.”
Below them, the crowd was growing. Tourists pointed. Locals laughed. A hot dog vendor started taking bets.
Darryl had made it to the fire escape now, climbing with the desperate speed of a man whose children were literally airborne and whose parents were watching the whole thing.
"Dedulya!" Simon called down to Peter, who was still on his phone but had one hand pressed to his heart in a gesture of profound European disappointment. "Look at us!"
Peter lowered the phone just long enough to say, "I see, vnuk. I see." Then he resumed whatever call he was making—probably to the embassy.
Irene had her rosary out. She was praying in what sounded like three languages simultaneously.
"Oma, we're fine!" Maya yelled.
"You are not fine! You are in the AIR with no PARACHUTE!"
"We have Luke!"
"That is NOT BETTER!"
Luke, for his part, was thoroughly enjoying the chaos. He flew them in lazy circles, dipping low enough to make the crowd gasp, then soaring up again. Simon's laughter rang out across the street, pure and joyful.
"This is the best day of my life," he announced.
"Better than your birthday?" Luke asked.
"Better than EVERY birthday!"
Maya snorted. "You've had nine birthdays. That's not a high bar."
"You've had eleven and you're still boring!"
"I am NOT boring!"
Below, Darryl had reached the top of the fire escape. He was scanning the sky, calculating angles, doing the kind of math that only a parent in crisis could manage.
"Luke, bring them down," he called, his voice somehow carrying over the chaos. "Bring them down and we'll talk about this."
"Define 'talk,'" Luke called back.
"Talk as in 'I'm going to kill you but first I need you on the ground.'"
"That doesn't sound like talking, Baba!"
"It's the best you're going to get!"
Maya tugged Luke's sleeve. "Can we go higher?"
"Absolutely not," Simon and Luke said in unison.
"Cowards." Maya sighed theatrically.
Below, Darryl made his move. He climbed to the top of the fire escape, judged the distance, and leaped.
For one terrible, glorious moment, he was airborne—a maybe thirty, forty-something man in a bistro apron and jeans and a leather jacket, flying through the air with the determined grace of a very angry mother bear.
He caught Luke's legs.
The sudden weight dragged them all downward. Simon screamed—with fear. Maya screamed—with terror. Luke screamed—with effort.
"HOLD ON!" Darryl bellowed.
"I'M TRYING!"
"You're trying to KILL US!"
"THAT'S THE OPPOSITE OF WHAT I'M DOING!"
They descended in a tangle of limbs and protests, Darryl using his considerable strength to guide them down, down, down—
Into a dumpster.
They hit something soft—Simon realized, full of cardboard and packing materials. He bounced, Maya shrieked, Luke's head rang against something metallic, and Darryl lay in the middle of them all, breathing hard.
"Got you," he gasped.
"Mama," Simon whimpered, but he was laughing.
"Mama," Maya agreed, also laughing.
Luke just stared at the man who'd jumped off a building to catch them. "You're insane, Mom." His voice cracking on the last word.
"Runs in the family." Darryl sat up, assessing damage. "Everyone intact? Nothing broken?"
"I think my dignity is bruised," Luke said.
"Good. It needs it." Darryl then stood over them, hands on his hips, breathing hard as he wiped off a banana peel off his hair. "Now,” he said slowly,” WHAT WAS THAT?"
They were grounded afterward, obviously. They all had to work part time at the bistro after enduring four different lecture from the adults (Ajax’s barely counted because he was laughing so hard Darryl was concerned his boyfriend, who was older than him, would pee himself in front of their children); Luke also had the shoes taken from him for three months, Maya was banned from high places for six weeks and Simon cried his way out of punishment, because of course he did.
Looking at Nolan was a double punch of grief and confused longing. I don’t want to lose another brother.
But I don’t want you. But I… want you.
The sound of gagging snapped him back. Nolan, in human form now, was clutching his nose. “That’s disgusting!” he yelled, and bolted up the bleachers toward the exit.
“Nolan did it, not me!” Simon called to Malcolm, and darted after his brother, leaving their uncle to deal with the biohazard.
In the hallway, the stench was a living thing on his clothes. Terrific. He was the bird-kid outsider already. Now he’d smell like a walking landfill.
“You should help Malcolm clean the pit,” Simon said, finding Nolan lurking by Malcolm’s office.
Nolan made a face that was so eerily similar to Simon’s own you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me expression. “You help him. If you had just shifted, I wouldn’t have had to spray you.”
“I told you, I don’t like flying in the pit.” The half-truth tasted sour, because years ago, when things were better—Simon liked flying, especially when Luke would carry him and soar them around camp in his winged shoes. The full truth was a lead weight in his stomach: I’m afraid of what else might come out if I try.
Nolan could shift into any animal. He was the heir to the infamous Beast King. It was the biggest, most dangerous secret in the Animalgam world. And Simon… Simon had to protect him. Protect the secret. Even if it meant letting Nolan think he was just a cowardly, one-trick eagle.
“All you have to do is flap your wings a few times,” Nolan pressed, annoyed.
“He’ll get there eventually,” Malcolm said, joining them. He fixed Nolan with a look. “Just like you’ll stop relying so heavily on your mammal forms. If you have any hope of protecting yourself, you need to be comfortable in all five kingdoms. And you,” he added, pinching his nose, “are going to have to start cleaning up after yourself.”
“You’re the one who made that mess,” said Simon, touching his hairclip again. “I’m not cleaning up your skunk juice, no way.”
“But you’re the one who made me—”
“Enough.” Malcolm pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nolan, you’re cleaning up your own mess. Simon, go change. I can smell you from here. But if I don’t see your wings in the next twenty-four hours, you’ll be the one taking care of any future skunk messes in the pit.”
And if Simon knew his brother at all, he was positive Nolan would skunk him every chance he got just to make him clean up. “That’s not fair!” cried Nolan. Malcolm set his hand on his shoulder and started to lead him down the hallway.
“It’s perfectly fair. Now come on, the kitchens must have a few extra gallons of tomato juice lying around.”
As Malcolm led a protesting Nolan away and their argument faded, Simon hurried to the Alpha’s section—his temporary home. Passing the wolf guards, he entered the soaring space meant for bird students. The underground L.A.I.R. was called the Den, and it was shaped like a pentagon, one side for each kingdom. Since the birds weren’t invited to attend, the Alpha and his family stayed in their section instead.
Once Simon changed into a clean uniform, he would have the whole place to himself, minus a handful of pack members posted as guards.
He wasn’t interested in a nap before breakfast, though. He could hardly believe his luck at getting the rest of the early morning off, and he knew exactly what he was going to do with that extra forty-five minutes: practice shifting the way he couldn’t in the pit, not in front of Nolan and Malcolm. Because while his uncle only wanted to see him stretch his wings, Simon could do much, much more.
His room here was a strange echo of his old one. He’d transferred what he could: the postcards from his mother (only ever from North America, each with a carefully taken photo of an animal), all on one side of his wall, by his desk. The photos were on the walls by his bed, where it sat in the middle of his room, but only the “safe” ones—clear shots of him and Darryl around New York and random shots of scenery in the stat. The others were in his drawer with a secret compartment Simon when he was trying to organize his stationeries—the ones with Maya, Ajax, Luke, the Hollands, the campers… those were enchanted. To anyone else, the faces were a shifting, forgettable blur, a giant flashing “Don’t Look Here. Nothing To See”. A necessary secrecy that made his chest ache.
His bed was messily made with a plushie of what I can only assume to be Simon's patroness, Nike, in her stained red 'armour' and a spear. A gift from Maya, probably, or maybe a Capture the Flag prize he couldn't bear to leave behind. A thick sketchbook peeked out from under his pillow.
His few books were neatly stacked beside his table, ranging from Greco-Roman classics like The Iliad, The Odyssey, Theogony, and Ovid's Metamorphoses and Heroides (all the original Greek, minus Ovid—which was in Latin), all the way to Madeline Miller's Song of Achilles, Circe, and Galatea; Pat Barker’s Silence of The Girls, Women of Troy and A Voyage Home; Dazai Osamu's No Longer Human; his Oma's old, yellowing copy of the Brothers Grimm's Fairy Tales; and so many more I can't be bothered to ask about.
It was neat, in a way. Orderly and preppy on the surface.
But if you looked closer, you'd see the subtle touches: a Misfits patch sewn to the inside of the breast of his jacket, a drawing of the German Shepherds, Kaiser and Tsar—still barely adults, named after the rulers of Germany and Russia, where his Oma and Dedulya were from before immigrating to Coney Island—taped to the mirror. Looked a lot like a kid trying to stitch two wildly different worlds together than anything the Animalgams thought.
“You’re back early,” a sleepy voice squeaked from his pillow. Felix, a brown mouse and his best friend, was a ball of fur and priorities.
“Nolan tried to skunk me,” Simon said, heading for his dresser.
“That explains the smell. You need a shower.”
“And you need to sleep another hour if you’re going to be this cranky.”
Grunting, Felix burrowed deeper. Simon grabbed clean clothes and ducked into the bathroom. But instead of turning on the shower, he slipped quietly into the adjoining room—Nolan’s.
Beneath Nolan’s desk was his escape route. Moving the chair, he opened a hidden panel and crawled into the dark tunnel. As soon as it was closed behind him, in the absolute black, he let go.
He focused, and the shift came like a sigh. The world expanded as he shrank, a tickling sensation as fur sprouted, his spine lengthening into a tail. In seconds, a mouse sat where Simon had been.
This was his secret. The real one.
Nolan wasn’t the only heir.
Somehow, Simon could shift into any animal, too. He just couldn’t control it as well, couldn’t risk it in front of others. The pit was a prison of exposure. But out here… out here, he could practice.
He scurried through the rest of the tunnel, careful not to make a sound. As soon as he reached the grate that let out into the middle of the Central Park Zoo, he shut his eyes and imagined a golden eagle, and his body once again transformed. His front legs twisted and lengthened into wings, feathers replaced his fur, and his nose and whiskers turned into a hard beak.
He hopped out of the tunnel, his long talons scratching the paved stones. The sun was only beginning to creep up between the skyscrapers surrounding Central Park, and with his vision sharpened, he could see everything even in the low light of dawn. Twisting his head around, Simon searched for the wolf pack that patrolled the zoo while it was closed. No signs of life. At least not the kind that would get him grounded.
Confident he was alone, Simon spread his wings and took flight, the wind a glorious relief under his wings. He swooped over the park, the city waking up below. Without meaning to, he found himself circling his old apartment building. A sharp, homesick pain lanced through him. Darryl. Two months. It still felt like a raw, open hole. He couldn’t look.
Veering away, he landed in a tree near his old school path. He ruffled his feathers, trying to shake off the grief.
A robin landed beside him. “Gonna eat that worm?” she chirped, eyeing a fat one in the grass.
“It’s all yours,” Simon said.
The robin didn’t move. “You’re Simon, right? Simon Thorn?”
Every feather on Simon’s body went tense. He scanned the trees. More birds were gathering—robins, blue jays, crows. An audience. “How do you know that?”
“Orion said if we find you, we’ll have all the worms we want,” the robin said, hopping closer. “And seeds, and bread. Do you like bread? I like bread.”
Orion. His grandfather. The man who’d killed Darryl and taken his mother. The man who now thought Simon was his bird-kingdom heir.
“I, uh—I’m late for breakfast,” Simon said, trying for casual. “But you can have that worm. It looks extra juicy.”
The robin’s gaze flicked to the worm for a nanosecond. Simon didn’t wait. He exploded from the branch, wings pumping hard. A chorus of flaps erupted behind him. He dove and weaved through the trees of Central Park, heart hammering against his keel bone. He was bigger, faster, but they were many. He flew on pure adrenaline, losing them only when he shot back into the zoo and dove for the grate.
Safe in the mouse-tunnel, he shifted back, panting. He listened. Silence. He shifted to human, the familiar form a comfort after the avian panic. He still had time before breakfast. Maybe to read, to just breathe…
He pushed open the panel into Nolan’s room.
“Enjoy your flight?” said a deep voice.
Simon froze.
In the center of the bedroom, arms crossed, stood Malcolm.