The incessant *thrum* of his phone, a low vibration against his thigh, was a constant, irritating companion. Not a text, not a call, just… a notification. Something about a new high score on a mobile game he’d downloaded years ago and promptly forgotten. Percy tried to ignore it, as he tried to ignore the subtle shift in the air pressure that always announced Hermes’s arrival. It was a fool’s errand, of course, like trying to ignore the tide.
He was perched on a splintered picnic table at the edge of the volleyball courts, a half-eaten blue cookie crumbling in his hand. The late afternoon sun painted Camp Half-Blood in shades of gold and amber, making the strawberry fields glow. Around him, the usual chaos of demigod life unfolded: Clarisse was trying to wrestle a new camper, poorly, into the canoe lake; a few Apollo kids were harmonizing, off-key, on the steps of their cabin; and Chiron was cantering towards the Big House, his centaur hooves kicking up dust. Normal. Mostly.
Then the air shimmered, a tell-tale distortion of heat and light. Percy sighed, carefully placing the cookie on a napkin. He’d learned early on that Hermes rarely materialized with less than two objects in hand, and those objects often required his full attention.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite delivery boy,” Hermes said, his voice a smooth, tenor hum that always seemed to carry a hint of amusement. He solidified into his usual form: a lean, energetic man in a postal uniform, perpetually 25, with mischievous eyes that darted everywhere at once. Today, though, he was wearing a bright orange Hawaiian shirt over the uniform, and a pair of neon green sunglasses perched on his nose. His caduceus, normally a gleaming staff, was currently disguised as a glorified selfie stick.
In one hand, he clutched a steaming coffee cup from a chain Percy didn’t recognize, its logo a dizzying swirl of colors. In the other, a stack of brightly colored boxes, each tied with a different, intricate ribbon. “Percival,” he added, a familiar warmth in his tone. “Just the guy I was looking for.”
Percy winced internally at ‘Percival’. It was Hermes’s little joke, one he never seemed to tire of. “Hey, Hermes. What’s up? Another urgent package for Hades, or did someone misplace the Olympian Wi-Fi password again?”
Hermes laughed, a genuine, hearty sound. “Close on the urgency, though it’s not for dear old Uncle H. And definitely not Wi-Fi. My network is always impeccable.” He gestured with his head to the boxes. “These, my friend, are a special order. And you, my dear Percy, are going to help me with them.”
Percy eyed the boxes, then the selfie stick. “Help with what, exactly? Are you trying to get a better angle for your next viral video of Zeus yelling?”
A flicker—something unreadable, perhaps a shadow of annoyance, maybe just a brief distraction—crossed Hermes’s face before his usual cheer returned. “You wound me, Percy! My content is always top-tier. No, these are… gifts. Very important gifts. And I need a fresh perspective.” He leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. “Someone who understands *discreet* delivery.”
Percy narrowed his eyes. Hermes, the god of thieves, needing *discreet* delivery advice? That was like Ares needing pointers on how to start a fight. “Discreet delivery? You usually just drop things off mid-conversation or leave them on people’s pillows. Or, you know, just *appear* with them.”
Hermes straightened, adjusting his neon sunglasses. “Ah, but this is different. This requires… a personal touch. A human touch, if you will. And who better than a hero who understands the nuances of surprise and subtle persuasion?” He winked. “Besides, you need a break from all this… camp activity.” He gestured vaguely at the volleyball game, where Clarisse had finally managed to dunk a squawking camper, headfirst, into a water bucket.
Percy felt the familiar tickle of suspicion. Hermes never just *needed* help without an ulterior motive. He was the god of travelers, merchants, and tricksters. His requests always had layers, like an onion dipped in ambrosia. And while he genuinely enjoyed Hermes’s company—the god was often a welcome, albeit chaotic, distraction from the endless cycle of quests and monsters—he also knew to be wary.
“What’s the catch?” Percy asked, crossing his arms. The phone vibrated again. Another game notification. He briefly considered throwing it into the lake.
Hermes pouted, a surprisingly effective expression on a god. “No catch! Just a friendly request between… well, friends! These gifts are for a very particular client. And they need to be *perfectly* presented. No room for error. Think of it as… quality control.”
Percy’s gaze drifted to the coffee cup still in Hermes’s hand. It steamed gently, and the aroma, a mix of dark roast and something sweet, wafted over. “You haven’t even had your coffee yet,” he pointed out, a slight edge in his voice. Hermes was notoriously particular about his caffeine, usually taking a long, deliberate first sip before embarking on any major project. He knew this from experience; he'd once tried to distract Hermes mid-sip, only to be met with a laser-focused stare that promised future pranks.
Hermes glanced at the cup as if surprised it was there. “Oh! Right. Well, it’s… a bit lukewarm now, actually. Been on the move.” He finally took a gulp, grimacing slightly. “See? Too many things to do. Distractions, distractions.” He paused, his eyes landing on Percy’s phone, which had just given another faint hum. “Speaking of which, is that thing always buzzing?”
Percy clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to explain that the notification was nothing important, just a stupid game he'd forgotten to uninstall. It was an idiotic habit, this need to keep his phone on silent, but still feel the phantom vibrations, to check it compulsively even when he knew it was nothing. It was like a constant, low-level static in his brain. *Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.* A drumbeat of non-urgent information. He hated it. “It’s fine,” he said, maybe a little too quickly. “So, these gifts. Who are they for, exactly, and why do *I* need to be discreet?”
Hermes's smile widened, but his eyes held a strange, almost nervous energy. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he just looked at Percy, a spark of something unreadable in his gaze. It was a look Percy had seen before, usually right before Hermes either delivered a cryptic prophecy or disappeared in a flash of light. The air around them suddenly felt thick, heavy with unspoken things. Percy shifted, uncomfortable under the god's scrutiny. He knew Hermes liked him, he considered the god a friend, but there was always a sense of… performance, an underlying current of something more complex that Percy couldn't quite grasp. Today, that current felt particularly strong, like a storm gathering just beneath the horizon.
"It's... for someone who appreciates attention to detail, Percy," Hermes finally said, his voice a little softer now, less of the usual flamboyant showmanship. "Someone who deserves the very best. And it's not the 'what' that needs discretion, it's the 'how'." He tossed one of the brightly wrapped boxes to Percy. It was surprisingly light, and smelled faintly of sea salt and pine. "Consider it a test run. A favor for a friend."
Percy caught the box, his fingers brushing against the rough texture of the ribbon. He looked down at it, then back at Hermes, who was now swirling his lukewarm coffee, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. Percy had a terrible feeling he was about to become an unwitting participant in one of Hermes's elaborate, multi-layered schemes, and for the first time, he wondered exactly how deep those layers went. He just hoped it didn’t involve another impossible quest. Or worse, a delivery to Tartarus.