A/N: I don't own the rights to any of the Percy Jackson series or it's characters. That right goes to Rick Riordan. I also don't own the rights to Animorph including it's title.

I am, however, the person who posted 'The Tales of...' series.

This is not a crossover of the Percy Jackson series with the book/tv series Animorph, despite what you might think from the title. I just thought it be a proper name for the ability to turn into animals since that's why the tv/book series 'Animorph' was called that in the first place.

Animorph Percy and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief

I Turn into a Lion

No, I'm not connected to some television and/or book series (at least I think there was a book series like that), where kids gain the power of turning into animals after helping an alien. In fact, only reason I'm called this is because it's the easiest way to explain my powers. Although I wish I was, as it would explain everything.

My name is Percy Jackson, and I thought I was just a regular delinquent kid with ADHD and Dyslexia my whole entire life.

Boy, was I wrong.

It started a few months ago—back in May I think—when I was a boarding student at Yancy Academy, a private school for trouble kids in upstate New York. I was in this sixth grade class field trip to the Metropolitan Museum of art in Manhattan to look at some Greek and Roman stuff.

Most of the time Yancy field trips were boring, but our Latin teacher: Mr. Brunner, was leading this trip.

Mr. Brunner was this middle-aged guy in a motorized wheelchair. He had thinning hair and a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket that always smelled like coffee. At first appearance you wouldn't think he was cool, but he told stories and jokes and let us play games in class. He also have this awesome collection of Roman armor and weapons. So, yeah, he's pretty cool.

This field trip I was determined to be good. Which wasn't easy.

I have a bad reputation when it comes to field trips. Like at my fifth-grade school, when we went to the Saratoga battlefield and I accidentally shot an old Revolutionary War cannon at the school bus. In my defense I thought I heard something behind the bus that scared me, but no one believed me since no one else heard it. Before that, at my fourth-grade school, there was this incident at the behind-the-scenes tour of Marine World Shark pool where I hit the wrong lever on the catwalk and our class took an unplanned swim.

Basically, every field trip I been to, there been trouble.

The headmaster even had put me on probation with a threatened-warning of in-school suspension if anything bad, embarrassing, or even mildly entertaining happened on this trip.

Because of this, I stayed put all the way into the city as the school bully Nancy Bobofit, who was this freckly, redheaded kleptomaniac girl, throwing wads of peanut butter-and-ketchup sandwich at the back of my friend Grover's head, where it stuck to his curly brown hair, knowing I couldn't do anything about it.

The problem was, Grover was an easy target. He was scrawny. He cried when he got frustrated. He must've been held back several grades, because he was the only sixth grader with acne and the start of a wispy beard on his chin. On top of all that he was crippled with some kind of muscular disease in his legs that makes it painful for him to walk, and yet let him run—especially on enchilada day in the cafeteria. Despite the fact he can run though, Grover has a doctor's note excusing him from P.E. for the rest of his life.

Still, I'm fuming over the fact that I'm on probation while Nancy was getting away with throwing chunks of her disgusting lunch at my best friend's head. Nancy rarely gets in trouble despite her reputation as a kleptomaniac that got her send to Yancy in the first place. Mostly because she does it when I'm around that way, she can blame it all on me.

You think teachers wouldn't believe a kleptomaniac, but you'll be surprise whose side they take when it comes between her and a guy once shot a cannon at a school bus or almost drown his classmates (as my previous schools puts it).

"I'm going to kill her," I growled lowly which Grover often compared to a wolf.

I don't know why, but I can mimic many animal sounds when I'm angry or frustrated, but any time I try to do it any other time, I couldn't pull it off. In fact, many of my senses seem to heighten when I'm angry or frustrated. Which is why I thought I heard something back at the Saratoga battlefield. Some kids were being annoying and wouldn't shut up as I tried to listen to the instructor on how to prepare a cannon and well… the rest is already explained.

Grover tried to calm me down. "It's okay. I like peanut butter."

He dodge another piece of Nancy's lunch.

"That's it." I started to get up, but Grover pulled me back to my seat.

"You're already on probation," he reminded me. "You know who'll get blamed if anything happens."

How can I forget? It's a constant reminder of just how much my life stinks.

…

Mr. Brunner led the museum tour.

He rode up front of the class in his wheelchair, guiding us through the big echoey galleries, past marble statues and glass full of really old black-and-orange pottery that was over three thousand years old.

A few other things caught my attention: a model of the first chariot, a mosaic of the twelve task of Hercules—mostly stuff that either represents the gods and heroes, but what also catches my attention is the carvings and pictures of certain animals. I don't know why, but I always wonder what it was like to be some of these animals. Some might joke that maybe I wanted to turn into a bird and fly away from school so I can spare them the expulsion. As true as that may sound, I don't think that was the reason.

Anyways, Mr. Brunner gathered us around a thirteen-foot-tall stone column with a big sphinx on the top, and started telling us how it was a grave marker known as a stele, for a girl about our age. He even started telling us what the carvings on the sides meant, which would have been interesting to hear if the rest of the class wasn't talking. Even if I tried to tell them to shut up, the other teacher chaperone, Mrs. Dodds, would give me the evil eye.

Mrs. Dodds was this little math teacher from Georgia who always wore a black leather jacket, even though she was fifty years old. She looked mean enough to ride a Harley right into your locker. She had come to Yancy halfway through the year, when our last math teacher had a nervous breakdown.

From her first day, Mrs. Dodds loved Nancy Bobofit and figured I was devil spawn. She would point her crooked finger at me and say, "Now, honey," real sweet, and I knew I was going to get after-school detention for a month. What's worse is when Nancy wants to accuse me for something, she always turns to Mrs. Dodds, so even if I wanted to avoid trouble with her, I can't.

Mr. Brunner was talking about Greek funeral art, when I couldn't take hearing Nancy snickering about the naked guy on the stele anymore. I turned to her and said, "Will you shut up?"

Unfortunately, it came out louder than I meant it to, and the whole class started laughing, causing Mr. Brunner stopped his story.

"Mr. Jackson," he said, "did you have a comment?"

My face was totally red as I said, "No, sir."

Mr. Brunner pointed to one of the pictures on the stele. "Perhaps you'll tell us what this picture represents?"

Although there were a few things I pay attention too when it comes to Greek Mythology, there are other stuff I have trouble with. But when I turned to the carving Mr. Brunner was pointing at—which was of some guy swallowing five of his children one at a time, I felt a flush of relief as I recognize it. "That's Kronos eating his kids, right?"

"Yes," Mr. Brunner said, although he didn't sound satisfied. "And he did this because…"

I racked my brain trying to remember. "Well… Kronos was the king god—sorry, titan—and he didn't trust his kids who were gods, due to some kind of curse his father: Ouranos put on him for chopping him into pieces. So Kronos ate his first five kids. But his wife—Rhea right? She hid baby Zeus, and gave Kronos a rock to eat instead. And when Zeus was a fully grown god, he tricked his dad: Kronos, into barfing up his brothers and sisters—"

"Eeew!" said one of the girls behind me.

"—and so there was this big fight between the gods and the Titans," I continued. "And the gods won."

There were some snickers from my classmates, which was typical. But I doubt Mr. Brunner would turn me in for causing a little laughter considering it was caused by my answer as long as I'm correct—and judging from Mr. Brunner's expression, I was.

Behind me, Nancy Bobofit mumbled to a friend, "Like we're going to use this in real life. Like it's going to say on our job application, 'Please explain why Kronos ate his kids."

"And why, Mr. Jackson," Mr. Brunner said, "to paraphrase Miss Bobofit's excellent question, does this matter in real life?"

"Busted," Grover muttered.

"Shut up," Nancy hissed, her face even brighter red than her hair.

Leave it to Mr. Brunner to catch Nancy saying something wrong.

I would be enjoying this moment, but I was thinking about Mr. Brunner's question. It sounded like it should be something important to know, but Mr. Brunner makes anything he teach sound like that. So my answer ended up being: "I don't know, sir."

"I see." Mr. Brunner looked disappointed (that's never good). "Well, half-credit, Mr. Jackson."

Dang it. Being a C to D graded student I could use that full credit.

"Zeus did indeed feed Kronos a mixture of mustard and wine, which made him disgorge his five other children, who, of course, being immortal gods and goddesses, had been living and growing up completely undigested in the Titan's stomach. The gods defeated their father with some help from allies they gathered, and sliced Kronos to pieces with his own scythe—just as Kronos has done with his father Ouranos which led to the curse Percy added earlier—and scattered his remains in Tartarus, the darkest part of the Underworld. On that happy note, it's time for lunch. Mrs. Dodds, would you lead us back outside?"

The class drifted off, following Mrs. Dodds outside. The girls were holding their stomachs as the guys were pushing each other around acting like doofuses.

I was about to follow Grover outside, hoping to avoid Mr. Brunner and one of his life lessons he gives if he feels a student fails to understand the meaning of his lessons that involves life.

"Mr. Jackson," Mr. Brunner called.

Dang it!

"Go ahead, I'll meet up with you outside," I said.

Grover nodded and headed outside with the rest of the class.

Then I turned toward Mr. Brunner. "Sir?"

As always, Mr. Brunner was giving me this look that make you think he was thousands of years old and seen everything, and thus makes you know you can't escape him no hard you try.

"You must learn the answer to my question about real life, and how your studies apply to them," Mr. Brunner told me.

"Okay…"

"What you learn from me," he started. "is vitally important. Anything you learn, is vitally important. You never know when they will apply and thus you must prepare yourself for the possibility of it coming up. I expect you to treat it as such. I will accept only the best from you, Percy Jackson."

And that struck a nerve. Mr. Brunner always seem to expect the best out of me, as if I'm supposed to be better than anyone else in school, despite my struggles through class because of my ADHD and dyslexia. Heck, it amazes me I'm even in the sixth grade considering I often get expelled before I finish a grade.

But I know I wouldn't get out of here if I tell Mr. Brunner otherwise, so I muttered something about how I would try harder.

Mr. Brunner gave a long sad look at the stele, as if he been there, and told me to go outside and eat my lunch.

…

The class was gathered on the front steps of the museum, where we could watch the foot traffic along Fifth Avenue.

Overhead there was a huge storm brewing, as the clouds over the city were black. The weather in the state of New York been bad since Christmas. We had massive snow storms, flooding, wildfires from lightning strikes. It wouldn't be so shocking if this turn out to be a hurricane blowing in.

Of course, nobody else was paying attention to the weather. Some of the guys were pelting pigeons with Lunchables crackers. Nancy Bobofit was trying to pickpocket something from a lady's purse, and, of course, Mrs. Dodds wasn't seeing a thing.

Grover and I were trying to avoid the rest of the class by sitting at the edge of the fountain, hoping no one else would know we were from a school for freaks and delinquents that couldn't belong in anywhere else.

"Detention?" Grover asked.

"Nah, just another life lesson," I said. "I just wish Mr. Brunner lay off me sometimes."

Grover remained quiet, so I was expecting some deep philosophical comment to make me feel better. Instead, he said. "Can I have your apple?"

I didn't have much of an appetite, so I let him take it as I watched the cars passing Fifth Avenue. We're not far from my mom's apartment, and I started wishing I could turn into a pigeon so I can fly home.

I haven't seen my mom since Christmas, and I know she would be glad to see me. But I also know she'd be disappointed too, and send me right back to Yancy, even though I probably going to be kicked out of school before the semester was over.

Mr. Brunner parked his wheelchair at the base of the handicapped ramp. He ate celery while he read a paperback novel. A red umbrella stuck up from the back of his wheelchair, making it look like a motorized café table.

I was about to unwrapped my sandwich when Nancy Bobofit appeared in front of us with her ugly friends and dumped her half-eaten lunch in Grover's lap.

"Oops." She grinned at me with her crooked teeth. Her freckles were orange, as if somebody had spray-painted her face with liquid Cheetos.

I tried to stay cool and count to ten, as my school counselor had told me a million times. But I was so mad my mind went blank and a roaring sound filled my ears like waves.

I don't remember touching her, but the next thing I knew, Nancy was sitting on her butt in the fountain, screaming, "Percy pushed me!"

Around us, the kids were whispering: "Did you see—"

"—the water—"

"—like it grabbed her—"

I didn't have time to process what they were saying as Mrs. Dodds materialized in front of us as appearing out of nowhere, with a triumphant look in her eyes, as if I'd done something she'd been waiting for all semester.

Great. Now I have detention to pile onto with in school suspension.

"Now, honey—" she said.

"I know," I grumbled. "A month erasing workbooks."

Mrs. Dodds looked infuriated, making me wish I kept my mouth shut.

"Come with me," Mrs. Dodds said.

"Wait!" Grover yelped. "It was me. I pushed her."

I stared at Grover completely stunned. Mrs. Dodds normally scared Grover to death, but here he was, covering for me—or at least trying too.

Mrs. Dodds glared at Grover so hard that his whispery chin trembled with fear.

"I don't think so, Mr. Underwood," she said.

"But—"

"You—will—stay—here."

Grover looked at me desperately.

"It's okay, man," I told him. "Thanks for trying."

"Honey," Mrs. Dodds barked at me. "Now."

Nancy Bobofit smirked, but I gave her one of my I'll-kill-you-later stares. Then I turned to face Mrs. Dodds only to find she wasn't there. Instead, she was standing at the museum entrance, way at the top of the steps, gesturing impatiently at me to come on.

How the heck does she do that?

Seriously, this isn't the first time something like this happen. One moment things are going normal, the next thing I know I've missed something, as if a puzzle piece fell out of the universe leaving me with the gap left behind. The school counselor told me this was part of the ADHD, and that my brain was misinterpreting things. But something tells me otherwise.

Well, I might as well go after her and get this over with.

I started up the stairs, but stopped halfway to look back at Grover. He was looking pale, cutting his eyes between me and Mr. Brunner, like he wanted Mr. Brunner to notice what was going on, but Mr. Brunner was absorbed in his novel.

I looked back up only to see that Mrs. Dodds had disappeared again. After looking around and not finding her, I'm guessing she was now inside the building.

Great. She's probably going to make me buy a new shirt for Nancy from the gift shop.

Whatever the reason was, I went into the museum to search for her, only to find her at the Greek and Roman section—which she was the only occupant in.

Okay. Weird. Our class wasn't the only people here before, so where is everyone? Did they all go out for lunch?

Mrs. Dodds just stood there with her arms crossed in front of a big marble frieze of the Greek gods. She was making this weird noise in her throat that sounded like growling.

If it wasn't for this place being empty, I would be calm. But with no one here, I was getting nervous. It wasn't helping that Mrs. Dodds was looking at the frieze, as if she wanted to pulverize it.

"You've been giving us problems, honey," she said.

I decided to go with the safe approach. "Yes, ma'am."

She tugged on the cuffs of her leather jacket. "Did you really think you would get away with it?"

The look in her eyes at this point look evil, which really shouldn't be on a teacher's face. Sure there can be bad teachers, but usually it's not a good thing when they look evil.

Stick to the safe approach, I reminded myself, and said, "I'll—I'll try harder, ma'am."

Thunder shook the building.

"We're not fools, Percy Jackson," Mrs. Dodds said. "It was only a matter of time before we found you out. Confess, and you will suffer less pain."

I didn't know what she was talking about. I mean, sure I wasn't the best example of model student. I mean, I sell illegal stash of candy from my dorm room, and may of got my essay on Tom Sawyer online without reading it, but trust me, that's actually normal in Yancy. What do you expect from a school for delinquents?

So, what could Mrs. Dodds be talking about?

"Well?" she demanded.

"Ma'am, I don't…"

"Your time is up," she hissed.

Her eyes began to glow like barbecue coals. Her fingers stretched, turning into talons. Her jacket melted into large, leathery wings. She wasn't human—not anymore at least. She was a shriveled hag with bat wings and claws and a mouth full of yellow fangs, and she was about to slice me to ribbons.

For some reason I turned to the mosaic of Hercules' first task—the one where he killed that lion with invincible fur. I wished I could be a lion right about now. I can imagine myself as one, with a mouth full of fangs that can rip this—this thing apart.

That was when the strangest thing happened. As I imagine myself as a lion like the mosaic, I feel hair growing all over my body, especially around my head. My mouth extended as fangs grow in. My body reshape itself until I couldn't stand on two legs anymore and I drop to my—paws? What the heck just happened to me?

I didn't have time to respond as Mrs. Dodds lunged at me. Using reflexes I never knew I had, I dodge her and crouch my hind legs, as if feeling it was the right thing to do.

Mrs. Dodds spun toward me with a murderous look in her eyes. She snarled, "Die, honey!"

I responded with a loud roar that resembles a lion roar. Thinking back on it, that should have been an indicator that I was a lion at this point.

Mrs. Dodds flew straight at me, but I didn't let her attack. I let my instincts kick in as I sprang forward and lunged at her. I tackled her into the ground. Then withtout thinking, I sunk my fangs into her throat and tore it apart.

Instead of dying, Mrs. Dodds turned into a pile of sand that blew into the wind under me, leaving a sulfuric smell.

Then I was me again. I don't know how, but I was human—wearing the clothes I came on this field trip with that I had no idea I wasn't even wearing when I was a lion. The only indicator of what just happen was the after taste of leathery skin that I planned to wash out when we get back to school.

Deciding I must of ate some bad mushrooms in my lunch, I went back outside.

…

It started raining while I was inside.

Grover was sitting by the fountain, using a museum map as a hat over his head. Nancy Bobofit was still standing there, soaked from her swim in the fountain, grumbling to her ugly friends. When she saw me, she said, "I hope Mrs. Kerr whipped your butt."

I blinked. "Who?"

"Our teacher. Duh!"

"What are you talking about?"

She just rolled her eyes and turned away.

I asked Grover where Mrs. Dodds was, hoping she was just hiding somewhere, waiting to punish me any moment for keeping her waiting.

Instead, he paused and didn't look at me as he said, "Who?"

Grover never was a good liar, and this was one of those times I knew he was lying.

"Not funny, man," I told him. "This is serious."

Thunder boomed overhead.

Grover avoided the answer, so I decided to talk to Mr. Brunner, who was sitting under his red umbrella, reading his book.

He looked up at me as I walk up to him. "Is something wrong, Mr. Jackson?" he asked before I said anything.

Leave it to Mr. Brunner to know something was up without me having to ask first.

"Sir," I said, "where's Mrs. Dodds?"

He stared at me blankly. "Who?"

Okay. I wasn't expecting this from Mr. Brunner. Still I answer, "The other chaperone. Mrs. Dodds. The pre-algebra teacher."

He frowned and sat forward, looking mildly concerned. "Percy, there is no Mrs. Dodds on this trip. As far as I know, there has never been a Mrs. Dodds at Yancy Academy. Are you feeling all right?"