The silverware is perfectly perpendicular to the edge of the table, the runner is straight, and a little place card has Annabeth's name written on it in pristine calligraphy.

And she's wearing tights with pentagrams on them. How appropriate, given that this is a literal memorial for a dead hero. Fan-fucking-tastic. Nice going, Will, she thinks as she sits down at the table.

Will pulls out a chair and plops down next to her. At least Piper and Hazel know well enough to seat her next to her best friend.

"So are those donuts just for show, or do we actually get to eat them?" Will asks. Annabeth supposes he's trying to lighten the mood because it sure is awkward as hell right now.

She just shrugs in reply. This isn't her scene. Will goes to dinners and things for his internship sometimes; he knows how to act. Annabeth, on the other hand, works at Hooters. She does not know how to act right now.

"C'mon, why so quiet?" asks Will. "I thought you'd be pissing all over this place by now."

Maybe Will doesn't know how to act either.

Annabeth would like to be pissing all over this place, figuratively, of course. It's in her nature. When she broke up with Percy, he backed off. He stayed away from Camp Half-Blood because that was her territory, her turf.

Maybe the reason why Annabeth hasn't grabbed a sprinkled donut and bragged about herself yet is that these people are expecting a different Annabeth Chase. They're excited to see Annabeth Chase, the architect, the one with her life pulled together. They don't want anything to do with the real Annabeth Chase, the Hooters girl, the one with her life seemingly in shambles. Who says a bartender can't be successful? Annabeth's life is pulled together, even if she's not satisfying her teenage aspirations.

A plate of chicken and waffles collides with the table and wakes her from her thoughts. Her stomach gurgles, but her head says "Mmm, better not." Annabeth decides to listen to her head. Can't risk throwing up at Jason's memorial brunch. That would probably be disrespectful.

"Well, now that we're no longer shit-faced," Reyna says, scooting in close to Annabeth, "I guess we can catch up. Hi. What's new with you?"

What is new with Annabeth? "Uh, you know, not much. Little headache, that's all. Lip kinda hurts."

Her lip really hurts. Like, throbbing pain. Damn, why did Nico have to point it out? It didn't hurt before she knew about the swelling. She reaches for her spider bites, but that only makes it worse.

"Stop touching them," Will says. "They'll get worse."

"I know," Annabeth hisses.

Will throws his hands up in defense. "Doctor's orders, heh." He picks at one of his unruly curls.

"Oh thank the gods," Percy says, red in the face. Had he just run a fucking marathon? "I need to talk to you, do you have a minute?" He pulls out the chair across from Annabeth and sits down.

This nightmare just keeps getting worse. Hasn't Percy already humiliated her enough?

"That's Piper's seat," Annabeth says flatly.

Percy continues to talk. "Since when do you care about assigned seating? Anyway-"

Will throws an arm around Annabeth. "She doesn't want to talk to you." Will Solace is all sunshine and rainbows until someone makes an unwarranted pass at his best friend.

Whatever Percy's doing is not meant to be a pass. Annabeth just wants to crawl into her sweater and die.

Reyna saves the day: "Piper!" She stands up and waves. "Tell Barnacle Breath to get out of your seat!"

Annabeth slumps back in her chair, for once thankful for Reyna.

Piper swoops in and shoos Percy out of his seat, waving her arms around with a flourish.

"Well that was awkward," says Will. "Wanna get some food?"

Annabeth doesn't want to, but she knows people will ask if she's seen not eating anything. "Sure."

They make their way over to a buffet table. Will's eyes light up at the spread of assorted breakfast foods. Annabeth clutches her stomach. "I think I'm 'boutta be sick," she says.

"You're hungover," says Will. He's not wrong. "Eat something. Do you like everything bagels or plain?"

"Everything," she says.

Will purses his lip. "Actually, maybe you should go with plain. Don't want poppy seeds in your teeth." He puts some bacon on both his and Annabeth's plates.

"I can get my own, you know," Annabeth says.

"I like to feel useful," Will replies. "Are you alright? You're looking a little pale."

Annabeth lowers her voice. "I just woke up in the same bed as my ex-boyfriend."

"So did I," he says. "But fine. I guess it was different for you."

Hazel skips up to the buffet table, startling them both. "Hey, Annabeth! Can I borrow you for a minute? I just need to ask a quick favor." How is she so happy after last night? Her bachelorette party kind of sucked.

"Maybe in a bit," Annabeth says. "I'm not really awake yet." It's a pathetic excuse, really, but a believable one. She's sure she has bags under her eyes.

Once their plates are nauseatingly full, she and Will reclaim their assigned seats. Piper is now settled in and eating across the table from Annabeth. Where'd she get a mojito? Annabeth wants to ask, but that wouldn't be very Teenage Annabeth of her.

"The Valdez family is here! Let's get this party started!" Leo Valdez shouts. He raises a small boy into the air Simba-style. He's no older than two or three by the looks of it.

"Jay-Jay!" Piper squeals. "Bring him this way!"

The baby throws a toy Thomas The Tank Engine at Frank's head.

Frank grunts in response.

"Aww, must get it from his daddy." Calypso appears at Leo's side. She takes the toy from Frank and hands it back to her child. "No throwing, Jason."

Will's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. Nerves are getting the best of him too, it seems.

To be fair, it is pretty strange. It's borderline bizarre. None of them are old enough to be naming their kids after each other. The baby should be named after one of Leo's dead relatives on his mom's side, or maybe even just a name that Leo and Calypso both happen to like. But Jason Grace is dead, and Annabeth has a feeling the name "Jason" is going to become even more popular as more of Jason's former friends and comrades have children.

Frank stands up at the head of the table. Hazel gazes upwards with nothing but love in her eyes. They're so in love. Annabeth is impressed with their ability to keep their relationship stable long enough to commit to marriage. Will they name their firstborn after Jason too? Or has Leo completely staked his claim on the name?

But now the hangover is settling in, so just about everything makes Annabeth nauseous.

She eyes Baby Jason uneasily as Calypso attempts to fit his chubby legs into a portable high chair.

"Welcome everyone," Frank says. "Thank you all so much for coming to New Rome early for Jason's memorial brunch. Um, I have a speech prepared- oops." Frank's color-coded note cards scatter all over the ground.

Baby Jason laughs and throws his train again. A pitcher of water teeters dangerously close to the edge of the table, but Leo catches it just in time.

What's life going to be like for this child? There's sure to be constant pressure to live up to his namesake. That and the pressure of having heroes for parents must have quite the impact later in life.

Annabeth scans the table. There's not many people at this brunch, mostly just people who were on the Argo II with Jason, and also Reyna, who's apparently officiating the wedding. Come to think of it, everyone at this table is in the wedding party, that is, except for Annabeth and Will.

Something's up.

It hurts too much to think. Annabeth steals Reyna's drink, hoping that perhaps her orange juice is a screwdriver in disguise. Reyna doesn't even notice; she's probably more hungover than Annabeth.

Non-alcoholic orange juice dribbles all over Annabeth's white knitted sweater. Shit, her lip is numb from the piercings, and it hurts like hell.

Baby Jason giggles again. There's jam all over his face now. Who gave him sugar?

"Dammit," Annabeth swears under her breath, catching Will's attention.

"Do you want me to get you a straw?" he asks.

Annabeth dabs at her sweater with a napkin. It's a linen napkin. It doesn't do a damn thing against the stain that's settling in.

She balls up the napkin and casts it onto the table. "I'm going to the restroom," she mumbles to Will.

She's a sucker for a dramatic exit. It's not something Teenage Annabeth would do, but she's beyond caring. They can all see that she's not Teenage Annabeth. Hell, she has facial piercings. She's pretty sure that's against some Camp Half-Blood counselor code, and her younger self would never be caught dead breaking a counselor rule.

She leans over the bathroom counter and retches into the sink. It's not surprising that nothing comes out; she hasn't eaten since last night at the Olive Garden.

Annabeth looks into the mirror to examine the damage to her sweater, but she's distracted by somebody she's spent the last ten years trying so hard to be. Has she done it? Is she that woman? She hasn't taken a good look at herself in a while. There's no need; she has Will to tell her how great she looks and to offer her a bobby pin when her hair falls out of place. Her hair is quite out of place now. She should have known better than to put her hair up in space buns on a time crunch. And fuck, she never fixed her makeup from the night before. She has dark bags under her eyes, likely from a combination of lack of sleep and smeared eyeliner. She's trashy. She looks like a clown. She looks like a-

"Dumb slut," Annabeth swears at herself. It's true. She looks like a slut. She hasn't cared about that in a while, but being back with all these people from her past makes her feel self-conscious.

But why should these people from her past have the power to make her feel like this? So what if she's a slut? Nobody's allowed to make her feel bad about the way she dresses or who she sleeps with.

"Fuck off," she tells Teenage Annabeth. She'd worked so hard to beat that internalized misogyny out of herself, and there's no way she's letting it back in now.

She's Annabeth Chase. She's the single greatest bartender on the West Coast, and she saved the world on more than one occasion. She's bisexual and proud of it. She has a motherfucking tattoo. She doesn't even sacrifice food to the gods anymore.

Her stomach is now sticking to the sweater that Will bought her. Shit. She takes it off and lays it over the sink, taking a paper towel from the dispenser and dabbing at it. She doesn't know what to do. She just throws laundry in the wash with a Tide POD once or twice a week; Will's better with stains.

The door to the bathroom creaks open. "Hey, I don't mean to chase you down to the- oh..."

She recognizes his voice before she catches sight of his reflection in the mirror. Annabeth continues to dab at the sweater. "My boobs are out, Percy. What the hell do you need?"

"Um, I can come back." Oh. Percy's uncomfortable. Percy's uncomfortable because Annabeth has the breasts of a grown-ass woman now and wears push-up bras instead of sports bras. Granted, she usually only wears push-up bras for work; she has plenty more practical underwear at home. Will just packed the sexiest stuff he could find.

But still, she's enjoying this. "Oh no! Whatever it is must be very important. Do go on." Her speech is laced with sarcasm.

"Are you sure? I mean, I can..." Percy trails off again when Annabeth hoists herself up onto the counter. She's an expert at this. If she asks Percy to jump, he'll ask how high. Hell, if she jumps, Percy will probably pass out on the spot.

And that's the final nail in Teenage Annabeth's coffin, or rather, the final stitch in her shroud. She has been sealed away, buried in the caverns of a mind that no longer belongs to her for another couple of years.

Annabeth scrunches her nose and offers up a toothy grin. She's sure she looks like a psychopath with her messed-up hair and makeup and stupid fucking pentagram tights.

Good.

Percy scratches the back of his head. "Um, so there's this, uh, prophecy..."

Shit. Annabeth's combat boots hit the ground with a thud. This is not what she signed up for. Hell, she didn't sign up for any of this.

He continues, "I ran into Rachel yesterday and we were talking and suddenly she just, you know-"

Annabeth groans. "Fuck me in the ass right now."

"What?" Percy's eyes widen.

Annabeth sighs coolly. "What does the prophecy say?"

"Oh, sure. I wrote it down." Percy pulls a napkin from his breast pocket and begins to read from it:

She's not a saint and she's not what you think- she's an actress

She is yelling at a bridesmaid, somewhere back inside a room wearing a gown shaped like a pastry

This is surely not what you thought it would be

Washed up and ranting about the same old bitter things

This love is glowing in the dark

But the monsters turned out to be just trees, and when the sun came up you were looking at me

Annabeth leans in to read for herself, which is no easy feat. Percy's handwriting has only gotten worse over time. He jerks back, trying to avoid contact with her bare stomach, or worse- her breasts.

Those lines. Those aren't Oracle-original lines.

She snorts. "You really think you can just hand me a pile of jumbled-up Taylor Swift lyrics and I'll believe it's a prophecy? I'm rusty, yeah, but I'm not an idiot."

"That's what they are? Lyrics?" Percy asks.

The vacant expression on his face is enough to let Annabeth know that no, he didn't make this up just to get her attention. The Oracle of Delphi just dropped a bunch of Taylor Swift lyrics through Rachel Elizabeth Dare and expected them to figure out what those meant.

"Alrighty then." Annabeth takes the napkin from Percy and studies the chicken scratch.

She's not a saint and she's not what you think- she's an actress. Well then. Annabeth doesn't want to point any fingers or take credit where it's not due, but that sounds like it's about her. Not coming clean about her career and pretending to be straight can do that to a person. Fantastic. So does that mean everyone's going to find out? Worse still: the song "Better Than Revenge"? That's like the Taylor Swift equivalent of "Misery Business" by Paramore. Annabeth knows that more than anyone. Both songs defined her when she thought Percy was going to date Rachel. Yuck. She was so immature back then. And kind of mean.

But Percy just won't stop talking. "I thought maybe some of those lines were referring to Hera because, well, uh-"

"Because we're here for a wedding and she hates us?"

"Yeah," he says.

They stand there in the women's bathroom for a moment in silence. Annabeth continues to study the lyrics on the napkin while Percy tries not to stare. Based on his frantically darting eyes, it must be difficult.

He's so nervous. This guy desperately needs a fuck, Annabeth thinks. She's not about to help him out with that, though.

The door creaks open again. Just as Percy reaches for his precious Dunkin' napkin, Annabeth pockets it in her bra. She wants to take a closer look without Percy breathing down her neck, and he wouldn't dare violate her to get his precious napkin back.

"Hey, I need that!" he complains.

"Shut up!"

"Hey, Annabeth, what's- Percy? Oh my gods!"