... Prologue ...

"Just wait here, Dustin. We'll call you up when you need to go on stage." Nodding, I flash her my signature lopsided smile.

"Got it." I turn around, and I can practically hear her swoon. Her heels clack away as I sit on the couch, instantly slumping into extremely worn out cushion.

I grunt as I try to move, but I sink in a bit more. I can't help but to grumble a bit and think about how they really need a new couch, or how the heck I'm going to get out of this thing. Deciding not to shift around anymore for the fear of drowning into a mass of fabric, I twiddle my thumbs.

It's time for another interview, which basically means time for groups of girls screaming at me to marry them while bursting my eardrums at the same time, lots of bright flashes, and middle-aged women trying to make passes at me off and sometimes even on camera.

Yes, it's happened before, and I really wouldn't like to relive that experience ever again. A couple of times was enough, but right now I was verging on the 7th, and it's weird seeing exactly how much makeup a lady cake onto her face under fluorescent lights.

Do not even get me started on the 'seductively-tracing-fingernails-across-a-guy's-skin' because no, that's not sexy, it doesn't turn me on at all, and it's probably one of the creepiest things you could do; I, again, sadly know this from experience.

Fending away the ghosts of past fingernail scratches, I shudder and rub my arms.

I hear a crash to my right, and I jump slightly, which is really amazing considering the fact that a huge blob of cushion is practically suffocating my body. The same lady that told me to wait here was waving her arms around in a very violent way, and she didn't notice the spare stage lamp she caused to fall onto the floor.

I bite my lip, trying not to laugh, because really, even I would notice a broken lamp on the floor. Her eyes stare at me with confusion, so I cough and point to her left.

With a bit of confusion still left in her, she peers down, and I guess she saw the mess she had made. Her face slowly turns red, and trust me, I still feel bad about this, but I burst out laughing.

I'm horrible, I know, but I really couldn't help it. Honest.

She looks like a tomato by the time I stop laughing, and she just points to the stage monitor on the left of me. I almost forgot why I was here— to be in an interview, talk with a creepy interviewer, and become deaf due to screaming girls. Fun. So much fun.

Now that I think about it, maybe death by couch isn't such a bad thing after all.

On the monitor, there's a woman that's at least in her early 30's, the age where most people enter a mid-life crisis and realize that they're doing absolutely nothing, so they enter a time period full of "what did I just do?" and "when can I do that again?"

I don't really know, that's the only thing I've gotten out of these talk shows; it's always the same cougar interviewer, the same questions (one of my personal favorites being "boxers or briefs?"), and the same insane crowd.

Back to the monitor, though. She already stood up awhile ago, I think her name's Aphy Dite or something like that, and she actually looks, dare I say it nice. Blonde hair and sparkling gray eyes are very nice.

I'd tell you what else she looks like, but now that I think about it, her eyes seem to be green. Wait, now they're blue. Now her hair is brown.

I shake my head. Either the screen's messing with my eyes or the contacts. Drumming my fingers against my leg, I watch Mrs. Dite boost up the crowd's morale.

She was shouting things now, and the audience was getting wilder and wilder. I manage to catch the words "blond hair", "blue eyes", and "teenage heart-throb".

Apparently, a guy heard my groan; he's probably the janitor or something, because he's shaking his head right in front of me. Trying to act like I didn't just see him, I cast my attention back to the monitor.

He walks away, and I could hear him say, "Jesus, celebrities these days..." under his breath; I know for a fact that he said that.

The stage manager, also known as the lady who broke the lamp, started to wave her hands again. I nod and try to get off of the couch, but the more I struggled, the deeper I went in.

Ms. Stage Manager walks right next to me and pushes a red button I hadn't seen before. The couch's puffing right back up, which I think is really cool, and soon enough, I'm free.

"Now go," she hisses and all but shoves me to the stage exit.

"I'm going, calm down." Hopefully she didn't hear that. The sound of hands clapping together wildly and girls screaming and shrieking flood my eardrums, making me wince slightly as I walk onto stage. Immediately, I squint my eyes to adjust to the bright lighting and try not to punch the camera that's insanely close to my face.

I meet Mrs. Dite with a smile on my face, and she has a smile on hers too, a real genuine one. Taking a deep breath, I shake her hand with mine and sit on a blue chair. It's kind of overwhelming, but I've done this way too many times to be nervous.

Yet, the nerves are still there and now my palms are sweaty, and it's really gross; I'm currently resisting the urge to swipe my hands across my jeans.

"Welcome, the lead guitarist for the band Polar Ice, Dustin Worthings!" Even more shouting and screaming happens, and I'm almost positive that I'm going to be deaf by the end of this. The camera's also still invading my personal bubble, and I can feel some claustrophobia wash over my body.

"Thanks, it's really great to be here." Insert lopsided smile and stereotypical wave to the crowd. "But the thing is, I'm not Dustin, I'm Percy. Percy Jackson. Kind of awkward, isn't it?" Insert a loud crowd gone silent and a very confused Aphy Dite.

AN: And here we go, the editted prologue. If this is your first time reading this fic, then beware. You will soon hit the chapter that isn't editted yet and be very afraid of the change of the quality of the writing. A lot of of was used in that sentence.

Prologues and Firsts.

~Taffeh