Prolong
The threads of Fate, usually humming with the grand tapestry of destiny, were vibrating with a particularly chaotic energy. The Fates, grey and formidable, were not amused. Mortals, those fleeting, insignificant sparks of life, were meddling with the very fabric of myth. And Olympus, blissfully ignorant, was about to get a rude awakening.
It all started with a YouTube channel. A secret project fueled by Percy Jackson's ADHD, Annabeth Chase's strategic mind, Grover Underwood's boundless enthusiasm (and occasional panic), and Triton's unexpected knack for dramatic flair. It was called "Mythical Mayhem," and it was dedicated to one thing: filming a low-budget, high-energy, utterly absurd rendition of "Epic: The Musical," a modern take on Homer's Odyssey.
Percy, naturally, was Odysseus, sporting a suspiciously familiar leather jacket and wielding a plastic sword spray-painted silver. Annabeth, with her usual brilliance, doubled as Penelope and Athena, switching seamlessly between patiently weaving and dispensing battle strategies. Grover, ever the loyal sidekick, was Hermes, panicking about deadlines and delivering exposition with alarming speed. And Triton, surprisingly, was Poseidon, hamming it up with a trident made of PVC pipe and draped in seaweed he’d "borrowed" from his father's garden (much to Poseidon's future chagrin).
Apollo, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware. He was busy composing symphonies, tending his sun chariot, and, of course, being utterly smitten with a certain sea-green-eyed demigod. Percy, for his part, was balancing teenage hormones, the weight of the world (as usual), and the exhilarating terror of keeping his hilariously sacrilegious project a secret from his boyfriend, the god of music and prophecy.
The videos were, to put it mildly, a hit. Camp Half-Blood was obsessed. Demigods across the country were staging their own versions of "Cyclops Eats a Dude" and "Circe Turns Them Into Pigs (Again!)." Mortals, bless their clueless hearts, thought it was just a clever parody.
But the Fates saw everything. And they saw the potential for… entertainment. More importantly, they saw the need for the gods of Olympus, so long detached and self-absorbed, to be reminded of the messy, hilarious, human side of their stories.
So, with a rustle of ancient robes and a snap of their shears (which sent shivers down the spines of every hero in existence), the Fates descended upon Olympus.
The Throne Room, usually a picture of divine order, was thrown into chaos. Zeus thundered, Hera sneered, Ares sharpened his spear, and Dionysus, well, he just wanted a refill of ambrosia.
"Silence!" Clotho's voice, raspy with age, cut through the cacophony. "We are here on a matter of… utmost importance."
"Have you finally decided to end my exile?" Dionysus slurred, hopeful.
"This is far more significant than your oenological incompetence, Dionysus," Lachesis snapped. "We have… a presentation."
"A presentation?" Zeus scoffed. "We are gods! We do not attend presentations!"
Atropos, the most formidable of the three, stepped forward, her eyes like chips of obsidian. “You will attend this one, Zeus. Or we might just snip a few threads… starting with yours.”
Zeus, for once, found himself speechless. The Fates were not to be trifled with, even by the King of the Gods.