Chapter 3 - Chapter 3: Cabins and Cabin Fever

Cynthia Morales woke to the scent of antiseptic herbs and wildflowers, her body aching like she'd been trampled by a herd of invisible horses. Her eyelids fluttered open, heavy as lead, revealing a room bathed in golden sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains. She lay on a cot in what looked like a log cabin infirmary—neat rows of beds with starched white sheets, shelves lined with glowing vials and poultices that smelled of pine and honey. A centaur's tail swished in her peripheral vision, but she blinked it away as hallucination. Her dark waves were clean for once, braided loosely by someone else's hand, and her wiry frame felt mended, bruises faded to yellow ghosts. A silver scar on her palm gleamed faintly, pulsing with her heartbeat."You're awake," a warm voice said. She jerked upright, hand instinctively groping for her pocketknife—gone. Standing at the foot of her bed was an old man in a wheelchair, his tweed jacket impeccable, gray hair neatly combed, and blue eyes twinkling with ancient wisdom. But as he shifted, his lower half shimmered, revealing horse haunches and hooves. Chiron. The name slotted into place from Tully's vague hints."Easy, child," he said, his tone like aged oak, steadying her with a gentle hand. "You've slept two days. Exhaustion and minor wounds from your journey. Tully brought you over the hill; the tree's magic did the rest." His face creased in concern, but his thoughts—unspoken—marveled at her resilience. A strong spirit. Untamed.Cynthia swallowed, throat dry. "Where... Camp Half-Blood?" Her obsidian eyes darted, taking in the space: nymphs flitting like hummingbirds, a pegasus whinnying outside. Real. All real.Chiron nodded, smiling faintly. "Indeed. Safe harbor for demigods like you. Rest more if needed, but campers are eager to meet the new arrival. Mr. D handles orientation next." He wheeled toward the door, pausing. "Welcome, Cynthia Morales."Mr. D? Before she could ask, the infirmary door banged open. A pudgy man in a leopard-print shirt waddled in, Diet Coke fizzing in one hand, tigerskin loafers mismatched. He had thinning reddish hair, a red nose like a cartoon drunk, and eyes that bulged with perpetual boredom. Dionysus, though Cynthia didn't know it yet—god of wine, camp director by punishment, radiating grape-scented disdain."Another one," he grumbled, slurping his drink. "Chiron, you handle the mushy speeches. Name's Cynthia? Cabin undetermined—great. Hermes it is till we sort your godly deadbeat parent." His voice dripped sarcasm, but his gaze lingered on her silver scar, a flicker of unease crossing his ruddy face. Huntress echo? Troubling.Cynthia bristled, sharp cheekbones tightening. "Hey, soda breath, I didn't ask for this field trip."Dionysus snorted, unimpressed. "Feisty. You'll fit right in—or get eaten. Out you go." He waved dismissively, already turning away.Chiron chuckled softly. "He's... colorful. Come, meet the others."Outside, the camp sprawled like a myth come alive: strawberry fields rolling golden under Long Island sun, a glittering lake, pegasi soaring above woods alive with movement. Cabins ringed a central green in a haphazard U, Greek architecture clashing—marble pillars, thatched roofs. Campers in orange T-shirts milled about, laughing, sparring, some with unnatural glows or animal traits. Cynthia's instincts hummed: Pack. Territory. Mine?Chiron led her slowly, introducing campers in clusters. First, the Ares kids near their red cabin, all muscle and bravado. Clarisse La Rue, burly with chopped black hair, a jagged scar across her cheek, sneered from afar. "Fresh meat. Bet she breaks first drill." Her crew—hulking teens with camo gear—laughed, but Cynthia met Clarisse's piggy eyes evenly, chin up. Try me.Next, Aphrodite cabin: Silena Beauregard, curvaceous with silky black hair and warm eyes, flashed a perfect smile. "Hi! Love the braids—want tips?" Cynthia shrugged, olive skin flushing slightly. "Uh, thanks. Not my thing." Silena's thoughts bubbled: Shy under the grit. Potential.Athena's gray-eyed brood gathered curiously. Annabeth Chase wasn't there yet—off training, Chiron said—but Malcolm Pace, her lanky half-brother, adjusted wire-rimmed glasses. "Newbie? Strategy session later?" Cynthia nodded warily; her mind already mapped escape routes.Demeter kids waved from their earthy cabin, flowers blooming at their feet. One chubby girl, Katie Gardner, offered an apple. "Eat. Builds strength." Cynthia took it, biting deep—sweet, restorative. Allies? Maybe.Tully reappeared, hooves clicking, grinning through his scruffy beard. "Told ya. Cabin eleven next—Hermes. Catch-all for undetermineds and rogues." He nudged her shoulder, hazel eyes proud. She'll thrive.Hermes cabin was chaos incarnate: a long, beat-up structure overflowing with kids sprawled on bunks, playing cards, pickpocketing for fun. Graffiti-covered walls, laundry piles, a Lindt chocolate bar taped to the rafters like treasure. Luke Castellan lounged on a top bunk, golden hair tousled, sharp blue eyes appraising her from a face too handsome for the thief's smirk. Fifteen, lean-muscled in a worn camp T-shirt, Celestial bronze sword at his hip. "New girl. Cynthia, right? Travis, Connor—make room."The Stoll brothers—identical redhead pranksters, freckled and wiry—grinned identically. "Bunk's yours," Travis said, tossing her a sleeping bag. "Rules: don't touch our stuff." Connor winked. "Unless it's fun."Cynthia dropped her backpack, scanning bunks crammed wall-to-wall. No privacy, snores already rumbling. Her wiry frame tensed amid the energy—pickpockets, jokes, whispers. No place yet. Luke dropped down, landing cat-light. "Heard about the hellhound. Impressive. Weapons training tomorrow—show us."She nodded, pulse quickening. Prove it.Afternoon blurred into orientation: capture the flag rules from Chiron, lava climbing wall demo (Cynthia watched flames lick stone, itching to climb). Dinner at the pavilion—pavilions?—long tables under stars, nymph waitresses heaping plates with barbecue. Cynthia sat with Hermes kids, devouring ribs, listening to tales: prophecies, quests, godly parent reveals via shooting stars or doves.Luke leaned in, voice low. "Felt it yet? The pull?" His thoughts hid bitterness: Another pawn."Not yet," she admitted, wiping sauce from her chin. Her obsidian eyes caught firelight, silver flecks dancing.Night fell; campfire songs echoed. Cynthia claimed a lower bunk near the window, Luna the wolf peeking from her bag. Sleep evaded—too many bodies, too many scents. Where do I fit?Dawn brought archery. Range near the woods: targets painted like monsters, bows celestial bronze-tipped. Cynthia stepped up, wiry arms drawing string effortless. Bullseye—thwack!—arrow splintering wood. Gasps rippled. "Natural," Chiron murmured.Swords next: arena dirt-packed, clashes ringing. Luke handed her Backbiter; she twirled it, parrying his strikes fluidly, footwork dance-like. "Where'd you learn?" he panted, impressed despite himself."Streets," she said simply. Sweat slicked her olive skin, dark braids whipping.Spears, javelins: same story. Her throws pierced centers, dodges blurring speed untaught. Ares kids muttered respect; even Clarisse grunted approval.Forge time: Hephaestus cabin, squat and smoky. Beckendorf—massive Black teen with singed dreads—demoed hammering. Cynthia tried, sparks flying, but metal warped under her touch, refusing shape. "Not my gift," she muttered, hands blistered. Destroy, not build. Beckendorf shrugged kindly. "Archery type. Happens."By midday, exhaustion hit—not from effort, but uncertainty. Hermes cabin felt temporary, a waystation. During free time, she wandered cabin row, peering: Apollo's sunny, Hermes chaotic, empty Zeus cabin forbidden. No home.Luke found her at the lake, skipping stones. "Good with weapons. Camp'll claim you soon." His smile didn't reach eyes shadowed by resentment.Cynthia skipped one hard—six bounces. "And if not?""You will." But his thoughts soured: Gods always choose late.Pavilion lunch: chatter about a new camper arriving soon—"seaweed brain," Stolls joked. Cynthia tuned out, stabbing impaled chicken, silver scar itching. Huntress. Soon.As sun dipped, Chiron summoned her to Big House porch. "Progress, Cynthia. But patience." Dionysus belched nearby, cards shuffling.She nodded, obsidian eyes fierce. Weapons fit like claws; forging didn't. Camp was pack, but her place? Still hunting.