Up on the mountains of Norway, there are Fallenchoosers who climb the heavens down and up, reaping worthy souls for the Fallen's hall, as it has been told. For many ages have they crept onto the mid-yard where men fought their wars and claimed their domains, and took from those wars the men who bravely sacrificed themselves to the Gods' piety. In the Midyard, on those mountains which hoisted up the trembling way to the Godyard which the Gods reside and revel in until the fated Gods' twilight. In the Godyard, the three gods Wedne Allfather of the Gods' Rune, Tue Wedneson God of his own Rune, and Thur Wedneson God of the Thorn's rune look upon the mortal realm with their bountiful knowledge and experience of the battlefield to pick out the Onearmymen, who would fight in the Godtwilight against the Jotun from the Jotunhome and the Muspelhome. Wedne made the plans, saw the futures, and oversaw the slain for they to be ready for war. Tue trained the army, taught them honor and justice, and held the lines together. Thur weakened the enemy, lessened their numbers in their home, thunder heard from his lightning white hammer with every strike he struck. It would have been folly to attempt a climb to their realm, as the God Homedall, watcher and sounder of the Gods, would ensure only the honorable dead made it to the Fallen's hall.
So to say Percy Jackson was making a mistake would be a big understatement. With him, he only had a pen and two companions. As for armor, he had none, he was clad in an orange t-shirt and purple jeans in the freezing mountains of Norway, where he had reached the snow-peaks above the clouds. But, be told, listener, he had a strange necklace of beads which told the most interesting story of a year in his camp, each of including him and his many deeds. He was a hero of prophecy, son of Poseidon the God of all things freely wild, and his pen was not a pen, but Riptide, a blade which cut its foes like the waves of a battering sea. His two companions were Annabeth Chase, the daughter of Athena, Goddess of skill and the imagination of her father, Frederick Chase the military history teacher and Dionysus, God of Delirium, the former conqueror of India in his mortal days. So be wary, they were comfortable enough to converse lightly in the midst of the bloody Scandinavian rainstorm, the lightning bright hammer piercing the Jotun skulls heard by the thunderous claps in the skies.
"I wonder, sir," Percy practically interjected to his own response, "if the only reason I'm here is because I asked for roasted duck at Thanksgiving."
Dionysus scoffed, and explained, "For a little over three decades prior to your arrival, Chiron the most just of centaurs and I, fallen son of Zeus, had still distanced ourselves from the practices of Thanksgiving. We were uncomfortable," and Percy scoffed, already used to the long monologue ahead, "with the idea of celebrating the Puritan Christians' festival, having been cast off as devilish pagan deities and creatures of no or negative significance by such folk. In those times, we had still allowed our campers to celebrate as to their own, as I am still God of parties. Was I not entitled to my Godhood?" This was rhetorical, for as soon as Percy opened his mouth at the opportunity to cut off the long monologue, Dionysus continued, "By the time you arrived, we had publicly celebrated Thanksgiving in a similar manner to the Pilgrims, with duck and many meals of the harvests. I still must thank Demeter for that favor in 2001." He chuckled wistfully, and continued further again, "So, tell me, you ill-named brat of Poseidon's ill-kept affair, have I done so as to your exact wording? No need to answer, for when we get to Asgard and Valhalla, there will be plenty of roasted duck for you to enjoy."
Under his breath, Percy gave a response, "We'll see about that," and climbed again the rocks of the snow-capped mountain peak. Above him, the lightning retaliated, boldly striking all corners of the world, an extra spurt of the rain dripping down from the frosty heavens that man have found so unfathomable. Hear, Percy Jackson of the fierce seas, there be monsters.
"Well, Percy," Annabeth finally spoke up in the long time she spent climbing the mountain range. For all that time they'd been climbing to the Fallen's hall, she had been analyzing the map and the terrain. "We're in the middle of nowhere. We should probably head down now."
"Now?" Dionysus was flabbergasted, "When we have reached the peak? We're practically on the doorstep! All we need to do now is find the mysterious door that the Valkyries use. It may be rough, but we managed to get here. Combining all of our smarts," as Dionysus looked at Percy with the eyes that said you weren't contributing, "we will be in Valhalla soon. Besides, I know Thor very well. He'll let us in, as he knows my ways. Speaking of, when we first met, it was when I was a mortal, nearly succumbing to a fatally acute wound from one of my many journeys in my youth. It was he who, after drinking of my newfound wine, took me to Asgard and healed me so thoroughly, I barely remember the scars. Ah, but it was not the last time I would have met him. This would've been my second life, and I encountered him more on that life, and this. I have it all recorded it somewhere, I remember.
"Sir!" interjected rudely Percy, pointing ahead of Dionysus, "There's your door!" Dionysus frowned when he looked, not a hint of the old scenery of the entrance of the Godyard in sight. In fact, there was an anomalous intrusion on the frosty scenery, a short white goat with brown hair and blue stripes stood proudly at the highest rock, taking in the sunlight majestically. "Lo there!" Dionysus called the goat, "How may we reach Valhalla, o goat of the North?"
The goat gave a confused sound, contemplating itself, and called out further. Dionysus, the master of madness who could speak with all manners of creatures, sighed and braced his knuckles. He put his fingers to his chin, recalling his essence, and with an obscure gesture, beckoned the goat to be a human again. Although it a long ritual of 2 minutes, where the hairs and furs morphed to skin and hairs, barely anything had actually changed. The human now in front of them was still comparatively short and aged, with a brown beard and cut off full head of hair on a white face that was dripping off the bream with how experienced it was. He wore a white and celestial blue shirt with the number 10 and white shorts with black stripes, long socks, and black sneakers. Taken aback by the sudden transformation, he took a deep breath, and finally introduced himself with an outstretched hand and a slight nod, "Gracias, señor. Buenos días, pero ¿quién useted es?"
Dionysus smiled again, relived to be speaking a more refined language, and told him, "Soy Dionysus. Pido de nueve, ¿Cómo llegamos a Valhalla?"
"No sé. Esta es nueva para mi. Recuerdo que estaba en Francia, cerca de Bélgica," the man continued after a heavy sigh, oblivious to the cold temperatures and high altitude, "Estaba celebrando la Copa Mundial con Di Maria."
"Gallia then? I think I know which God did this to you," realizing his mistake on Messi's face, Dionysus translated again to his shame. Turning back to Percy and Annabeth, he exclaimed, "There is only one Gaulic God left in this wretched world who could be so influential. And he is a nationalistic God, who enacts the warrior and the protector the region's pride. Although, I remember him to be a God of the Woods. I wonder where he could be at the moment. Truly, he must be plotting, if he's going to interfere in the world like the old days."
Meanwhile, near Belgium in France, Kylian Mbappe was sulking with the rest of the French football team, one hand on a half-drunk beer mug. 23 years old, and he couldn't grab a second World Cup while also losing to an old-timer who never won a World Cup before? Today was turning to be a bad, bad day, Mbappe thought to himself, but at least I'm going to get the Ballon d'Or. Oh, and at least he wasn't benched like Giroud and Griezmann or any of the other strikers. Seriously, what was that? I literally had to carry the entire team; not even Lloris was doing anything special! What happened to Lloris who blocked most of the English goals? And don't get me started on the first half, nobody was transitioning the ball! While Di Maria was around! By God, that was a harrowing game. If only there was a way to-
"Hel- Oh I see you're not a Frank or a Gaul. My b, you're from Paris, aren't you?" Who was this guy, to be speaking in this manner? What was he insinuating, and who is he talking to? "I'm talking to you, Mbappe. I may or may not be in your beer-induced mind, but you're not really cognitively aware of your surroundings, so you may see me. I'm going to wave at you now," and the voice stopped. Mbappe paused for a minute, questioning everything that happened to him so far, then looked up. At the other side of the table was a curious looking man, seemingly both Britishish and Roman. He had a spear made of mistletoe and olive wood, and a helmet that resembled a medic's. He wore a full set of armor, leaving his form to the imagination, only his clean shaven, white face and some blue tattoos. But most importantly, he looked as though he was from the past before France, when the Gauls still inhabited the land. That was probably because he was, Mbappe, but I won't say that he doesn't look a little like a larper.
"Well, my good fellow, I have a deal for you. I know how to deal with Ronaldo," and before Mbappe could argue with a possible hallucination, the man continued, "I have already dealt with Messi. I have turned him into the very thing his heart is." A little sheepishly, he cleared his throat. "A goat. I turned him into a goat, and I can do the same for Cristiano Ronaldo."
Mbappe, a little perturbed and frustrated by this development, took to arguing in French, "Well, SIR, I am from Paris, I do see you waving at me, and I must ask you this. Why a goat? What IS that supposed to mean?"
"It means what it means," the man shrugged his hands away, "Don't question the God Lenus Mars."
"That's your name? Or are you a simple minion?" Mbappe interjected, unfazed that he could be talking to a God older than the common era, "Because it seems you had a funky and weak spell. Why a goat? Are you telling me he is the GOAT?"
"I am Lenus Mars, and that is my full name. I am no minion, so don't ever question me again. And yes, Messi and Ronaldo are the GOATs. In this crucial game, you could not go through three men, whereas Messi could blitz through four men in any match in his prime. And as for Ronaldo, he simply could style through three men. Anyways, I still have a deal for you. If you agree, then you shall get your 1v1 against both Messi and Ronaldo, and I shall have a man who honors my name. If you disagree, then I curse Messi and Ronaldo to eternal goathood, and you are unbothe- Hang on a sec." Lenus takes a long look past the settings of the drunk bar, all the way to the mountains and heavens of Norway, where Messi, who is not in an animal form, was casually talking to two teenagers and DIonysus?
DIONYSUS, YOU SON OF A
"Woah," Messi exclaimed, "You guys hear that?" To everyone's surprise, Messi was switching to English, as he was shocked to his base form. You'd think that a guy who thinks in Spanish would speak Spanish when shocked, but it appears he forgot. Nonetheless, Messi returned back to speaking spanish. Wonder why and how Lenus Mars got cut off. Oh well, it's of no importance, Dionysus figured, yet it's still necessary to find the door to Valhalla. Oh, maybe if I recite a poem of rhymes, they shall allow us sanctuary. But what's the use, if nobody will listen? If they're good keepers of the heavens, they'll still bar us out to the freezing wilds of Scandinavia. The last thing I want is to die again, if not permanently and in the barbaric-kept wild mountains of Scandinavia. Oh I beg, Zeus of the heavens and the underworld, whichever of ye is my father true, open up this door.
"You four good?" The voice was low, and unexpectedly scratchy with the experience of shrugging off hardships. Dionysus could smell the stench of booze, and he smiled, although he would have you think he didn't. He was the God of Madness, as it came with being the God of Delirium. For what was Delirium but madness and ecstasy? He could have kissed the ol' crossdresser, it really was him.
"Thor! My friend! How are you?" Dionysus started off the conversation, since everybody else was far too intimidated by Thur's hulking figure, his bulging arms clutching a hammer that fit too small for it to possibly work. He wore a shirt of dark bloodied furs adorned with the gold and silver of the Jotun, and if you looked closely, you could steal a glimpse of how Jotun organs look after oxidizing. Thur's face was mostly covered by the owl eyed Spangen Helmet, leaving only his lower face open to the world. It was designed to work, and not to hold any fashion sense. Dionysus could see that Thur had mostly shaved, some stubble here and there that accented the lines of his face, but really, Thur had made some effort. He lifted his helmet, and Dionysus could see that the once red hair Thur loved so much had been dyed blond and straightened out. Thur had not blue eyes in the mortal way, but rather his entire eyes were milky white and celestial blue mixed together. And Mjolnir was still as lightning-white as it once been.
"I am well, friend Dionysus. I return from another successful quest, and I have slain Outyard Loki for all the trouble he has and will give me. Now the Jotuns are disbanded, and shambled together only in pettiness, so Ragnarok will be safely avoided," the pride shone bright and true with Thur, and Dionysus couldn't help but also feel relieved alongside his friend. "Now, what are you doing here? I'd figure you'd still be at that camp by this year."
"Oh, my friend, we seek the gates to Valhalla. I have business with Odin, actually, and these two decided to accompany me. Annabeth here hopes to spend time with Magnus Chase, her deceased cousin, and Perseus here, he wants roasted duck for this Thanksgiving, even though Thanksgiving has already ended. And Messi here, he just needs shelter. He's been recently cursed by a rival of both of our pantheons, so I'd try and," the rest nobody but the Gods could hear. It was heavily implied to Percy that it involved bait, hook, line, and sinker. Also, who would rival both the Norse and the Greek Pantheons? Would it be the Roman pantheons? Last he remembered, they were chill and the Gods were theoretically the same to the Greek Gods. So it must be a tribe which encountered and fought Greeks, Romans, Germans, and Scandinavians. Oh, if only school taught Roman age history, the history before the medieval age and the Byzantine Empire and after the Greek philosophers. The Romans had documented every aspect of each ancient European culture, built roads that rival the modern day roads, and had made the longest lasting empire of size and civilization. They would know how fought Greeks and Norse folk, surely.
"Alright, friend Dionysus, I shall take you to my father Odhinn's hall of the felled, and guide the way. And Messi!" Messi looks up from his sculpting of a proper soccer ball out of mountain rock and snow, of which he had done before. "Stay with me, if you will. I have the upmost important business to talk to you, and a frenemy whom I know you'll enjoy the company of as of now." Thur smiled a little crudely, but never crassly. Now was not the age of the blood-frenzied God Thur, as he had been disciplining himself to the ways of Tue and his mortal friends instead of Wedne the self-martyrical God and Loki the God of Fantasies, who had seen himself finally pardoned from his eternal punishment to a moderate recovery under house arrest. To their thinking, it would be easier to control Loki in the Godyard then it would outside their area, where his bitter wife Angerboder and his fellow Jotuns plotted alongside to unleash the God's twilight.
And so, the four under Thur's watchful eyes entered the venerable and heavenly Godyard, the gates of the Fallen's Hall opened for four living souls, each of whom had fought a worthy battle before entering as the Gods' decree demanded for entry. Messi, now having to go with Thur, challenged him to a soccer game, which to Thur, would prove unwinnable. Time they spent waiting out their enemy's plan, like a game of chess online where the opponent has limited time. Messi would not eat any of the food of the dead, as has previously entrapped Persephone to the dark Hades and its master Pluto, even if Thur swore his father would not concoct such a spell. Dionysus took wine, finally losing his sober personality after how many years had it been? A century? Decades and many years had passed since last he could drink any of what he made. And it was a bottle of his own making, preserved for many millennia, the bottle he gave to Thur long ago that remained half drunk. No lips had touched the bottle, Dionysus was relieved to find out, and he drank the last drop of it in a gratified frenzy, the controlled character he played unveiling itself. But one could only wonder, was it the drunkard Dionysus who was true or had sobering up forced him to show his private nature? Alas, Dionysus was restored by his own glory, unbeknownst to the authority of Zeus, who would surely prohibit it. But he was a son of Zeus, was he not? The son of heavenly Zeus whose throne is in Olympus, or was it the worldly Zeus, that acclaimed Pluto? No matter for a drunkard to think on, it would be a question for the morning after to discover. In the meantime, maybe it was time for a true, formal introduction to Perseus Jackson, that son of Poseidon, and the chastely-born Annabeth Chase. Haw, that rhymes! Perchance a joke to settle himself in? Then what would be a proper monologue of comedies? I can't think of not a thing. Raagh! Athena! You will suffer for this. None shall defy me; I will make you suffer. I am the God of Wine! I muss hafe a prapre lauf with thoure dochtre, ashore weitwo havf her and her boyfriend and her cousin introduced to my krelself. Thinque, you drounkard Dionysus, you haue mrittem comedies wifh playwrites biefor. Hrmph. A simpel Yo goes a langaway. Andef dhe answor... naii, I shalgo, 'Yo soy'. It's perfeect! Hwaer are the two baestards nough, so that I may convrse andt joac?
Three kilometers away from Dionysus, the three joined demigods conversed lightly. Magnus ate a tofu salad that he prepared in his room alongside Alex, the offspring of Loki, who was sitting right by him, talking about insurances and such. The last time Alex's friend Mallory heard of insurances was from learning about car insurance, so it held funnily ironic to the mind of green-haired Alex, who was sipping some red cough syrup mixed with sneaked vodka, a reference to some movie which Alex wouldn't disclose alongside the fact that vodka was in the drink. The fact that it was cough syrup, Alex could tell a long tale proudly, putting pun after pun about how good and iconic a movie Cool Hand Luke was. Percy could care less, but also couldn't. Right now, he was disdaining the food in front of him, seeing as it was all just cheat food that spawned from an unkillable deer, ergo just deer meat that messed with physics, which was a bad omen. In Annabeth's gray eyes, food was food, so she was content to chew the meat that tasted like crab. After swallowing the meat she chewed, Annabeth would offer a simple sentence to her cousin Magnus' well-meant questions, and infer a new trajectory. The meat was fine, and she was famished. She waited some days to see her beloved cousin, she could wait some more to fully interact in any meaningful conversation after eating her entire plate. Percy was on the brisk of complaining about having no roasted duck, but Dionysus seemingly came out of nowhere. "Yo."
Was that really Dionysus? He remembered him to be a little snide, more sober. Was this some frat kid's impersonation of Dionysus? Judging by Annabeth's look, this wouldn't be the Dionysus she came to know. Magnus and Alex, having never really known Dionysus, welcomed the company immediately, with Alex raising the cup of cough syrup in a friendly gesture. "Yo," was what Alex responded.
"Yo Soy," and just like that, a burst of laughter erupted from the mountainous Dionysus. Alex dazedly followed suit, whereas concerned Annabeth asked, "What?"
"Well, you see, it's a play on words," came the explanation from the foolishly grinning Dionysus, whose hands were on Annabeth's chair and a wine bottle? I thought he couldn't drink!
"Huh?"
"So, Dionysus," Alex grinned as well, and put a light hand on Magnus' hip. "You're the God of Wine I've heard so much about. Tell me; did you ever watch Cool Hand Luke?"
"Have you been drinking?" Annabeth interjects Dionysus after seeing the wine bottle that dates back to BC era.
"No, no, it's hi, how are you, my dear Anne Boleyn, you sneaky cop you," Dionysus corrected Annabeth, well aware of the tricks that the police will do to make you testify willingly without even realizing. Annabeth shut up after that, Dionysus reasoned from his immense skills as a charismatic figure that could lie to the police about driving above the speed limit like the average New Jersey resident after dark, and oh my god, even his thoughts were turning to run-on sentences. He sighed a little, minding Annabeth not much, and replied, "Yeah, I watched the movie several times."
"Well," Alex spoke in a high-nasal pitch and a typical Floridan accent, unopposed to an increasing audience, "What we have here; is a failure to communicate. Tell me, have you ever tried eating 50 hard-boiled eggs in a hour. Because I have. And I've managed to do it with five seconds remaining." Alex chuckled, while Magnus was on the brink of barfing up the perfectly fine tofu and scrambled egg salad he and Alex made. It's true what they say; you better scramble like an egg before you get folded like an omelette. So, he just got up and left to swallow his meal in peace, to Annabeth's protest. Eventually, she decided to follow suit, leaving Percy there to listen to the two drunkards banter.
"Oh, I've seen it once or twice. It was one of the only times I ever died my hair pink," Dionysus chuckles heartily at that, and continues, "Happy new years, by the way. But yeah, I died my hair around that time for charity; you know, trying to get campers to donate to orphanages and the such, and the other time, it was under the watch of Emperor Elagabalus. O, you look just like Elagabalus would've described Loki, offspring of Loki. Hehe, I remember when I served as right-hand man under his wing, but surely an adolescent as yourself need not hear any details about naughty Elagabalus."
"No, no, continue." Alex pours some more vodka in the cough syrup, intent on listening to every word drunk, "Tell me about his full reign."
"Ah, well here's the first interesting thing. He was also a she, a makeshift hermaphrodite, and a young teen Elagabalus was. Proven under conquest, his family had tried to subdue, but his faith in that Syrian Helios, Elagabal, guarded him to influence Rome into deifying the sun; Sol Invictus, who watched over the restorer of the world Aurelian. To his allies, he granted power, and his enemies, amnesty. Elagabalus did have a wife chosen by their grandmother, although he chose his faith over her. Then Elagabalus wedded again to a priestly virgin, who got punished for losing virginity, to sustain godly children from the loins of his God and hers. She also became circumstanced, and became kosher, dancing for his God and gifting food for his people in his divine chariot. Then he got married again, which saved him, but then she married again to a different priestess. After that, history argues whether or not Elagabalus married again, this time to a man named Zoticus, but I'm here to say that Elagabalus did while he was playing Hierocles' mistress, the former slave and chariot racer who serviced him daily. She was a lady, not a lord, which angered his mother and the Praetorian guards, who, as you should know by now, the worst type of backstabbers. They demanded bribes from a man who didn't offer any, killing him when they didn't recieve the unpromised bribes. This turned out as one would expect, him killed mercilessly by his own kin with no supporters at the ripe age of 18. I miss her and his cute moustache. His reign was crazy, from top to end, and I'm glad I came back to Earth that day. She would have me dye my hair pink, as a testament to fidelity and piety, which I did. Man, I remembering sacrificing some poor chicken to Sol Invictus, the copius amounts of service I provided Elagabalus, but really, it'd be too lewd for you to hear."
"No, no," Alex was fully invested, a little tear being wiped from their flushed face, "Continue."
"I'm sick of this," Percy was on his endless wit's end. If he had to hear any more of this scandalous emperor's tale, he would, uh. He would, oh yeah, I guess he had asked for Roman history earlier on. Speaking of which, Dionysus promised him roasted duck. "Dionysus! Where's my dang duck?!"
Dionysus yelped, right as he was about to describe Elagabalus physically. Remembering where he was, he replied with a twang of sarcasm, "Calm, young Perseus. There's duck here," as he gestures to his own empty plate, "Sorry, Alex, but I'll have to leave this tale for some other time and place. Maybe when your father teaches you of the birds and bees, Perseus dog's son. After all, he should know more than any of us how to prouperl *hick* y do it."
"HEY!" Percy could've sworn he said that the loudly, but really, it was Thur with Messi, pointing outside. "Guys, the Vanir are here! And they are ready for Ragnarok."
Everyone went into a panic Dionysus could only attest to one such as when the young Olympians had the Satyr-God Pan, may he rest in peace, attack the Titans with his powers. Everyone was going for their weapons except for Thur and Messi, who were coming for him. Oh no, I really vewvwfwfoiewhfhiewhoh uyf.
"¿Puedes sobriarlo?" That would be Messi, who was carrying a now dirty soccer ball, which had been well kicked. Thur, with the ever more mangy face, responded, "Yes, I can. Hang on, Dionysus, you're really going to feel the lightning and thunder with this one," and before Dionysus could drunkenly protest, many volts of electricity ran coursing through his entire body, erecting each of his nerves, causing him some agony. Flushed, Dionysus could feel some other magic coursing through his veins, as his ichor was also cleansed with thousands upon thousands of thousands of electric volts. No longer was there any wine in his ichor, nor any ichor did he have left. Nay, in his streams were only Mjolnir's lightning. He looked at his hands long, gasping for air, scared with his newfound soberness. "What have I. Done?"
STOP PANICKING!
This statement only made the Onearmymen run faster, clammering all about without a care for their own safety. All of them would die, they have died, and all that matters is defending the Godyard. Dionysus would admit, even he was a little taken aback by that statement, and Thur gave a long glance at Freya, who was adorned in the Lifeguard attire of Sweden, the royal blue and yellow uniform fitting with the sparkling golden spangenhelmet and the fiery ice-blue eyes of hers which tormented any man who looked into its depths. Her golden blonde hair was tied back, and she held a fierce nine-tailed whip that could tear any man to bloody pieces, a cruel design meant not to sting, but to cut. Her whip slashed through the air, occasionally snagging some poor soul to the ground. After a while, the people calmed down in fear of the whip, listening closely to the words Freya would have to say.
"Someone here among thee, a groveling nithing has stolen Heimdall's horn and sounded Ragnarok. Wherefore are thou, outrageous thief, as such? Where are thee, treacherous man, amongst this loyal crowd? And forwhat have thou stolen Heimdall's horn?" A large gasp escaped the throats of all the Onearmymen, as they searched amongst themselves for shapeshifting Loki, as he'd always been the trickster, therefore such treacherous business must have been proposed by him. Wedne, although a clever man, would not want the God-twilight, but if not Loki, whoever would have took Homedall's horn?
Remembering that only blackout drunks and Steve Urkel can steal something, Dionysus became frightened, pondering whether or not he really did that. No, he had a solid alibi; he was talking to a minor about a promiscuous teenage Roman Emperor who was Syrian and had tried being transgender. Oh, maybe he shouldn't mention that; seeing as it's a bit suspicious and inappropriate for him to do so. Zeus, my father, you were right, but you know what? How's Ganymede? "Amigo." That would be Messi. He had a new soccerball in his hands, made from mashed potatoes this time, and before anyone could make a noise, he kicked the ball so hard it went across the realms to Saudi Arabia, where Cristiano Ronaldo was playing soccer with his sons, and hit the soccerball so that a tear in the dimension spread. Dionysus, Perseus, Annabeth, and Messi were transported away from the scene, followed in pursuit by the culprit Lenus Mars and Mbappe, and also Ronaldo, who didn't understand why he was in this chicanery again. Didn't FIFA already put him through enough of this? He didn't need to practice against an entire team of himself or Pele or Messi or Neymar or Mbappe or Ramos or Ricarlison or Griezmann or Lewandowski or Haaland or either of the English Harries (Harry Kane and Harry Maguire).
Surprising enough, he would see a Harry. It was not Harry Maguire nor Harry Kane nor any other fellow soccer players, but rather Harry Potter, while he was playing some queer game like soccer on a flying broom. That was weird, Ronaldo thought, but hopefully nobody sees him. He'll admit, it seemed that the kid had talent, but did he really? He wasn't familiar with the sport, but maybe Messi was, given the altitude of Argentina. Where was Messi, anyways? It had to be him who did this, but really where was he? And wherefore had he done this again? The last time they did this, he got stuck in a world where he had to reinvent soccer and the many, many leagues. Thankfully, in that world, he could forgo the word soccer, and just have everyone use football.
After a while, he caught glimpse of four normal people being escorted by two curious-looking teens, robed like witches and wizards, same as, wait a minute. He was drunk right now. How washe drunk? What, where, how? Why. Why is he back on a soccer field? Mbappe? Random white guy with blue tattooes, and another white ginger with tattooes? Messi? Huh? What did I miss? Oh, there's Dionysus, drunk again. Thought he wasn't, if the Percy Jackson books held true. Rick Riordan, you liar, he got drunk again. And is that Thor from God of War? What day is it; it's New Years. No, it's the eighth of January, but the timer says 2022 still. Damn, this fic was written by a guy who forgot the year and the story. Figures.