On January 21st, 1995, Ambrose Morrissey was born. His father, John Morrissey, was an Irish mercenary working as a guard for a laboratory in Germany, often working the night shift so he didn’t have to deal with the condescending bureaucrats and scientists that passed through each and every day. The job was monotonous, but it paid extremely well, so he kept it. However, one night proved to be different. A gang of would-be thieves attempted to sprint past him, one of them smacking him across the face with a blackjack in an attempt to take him out of the fight prematurely. John stumbled back, his lips busted and nose broken, and felt his anger well up within him. He threw down his rifle and chased after the men, tackling the one that smacked him and bashing him about the face with the nightstick on his side. The other two tried to pull him off, but pepper spray and tazers left them on the ground writhing. When morning came, the guards found a sleeping John Morrissey in the guard shack, with the three thieves bound, gagged, and brutally beaten on the floor beside him. John was awarded several raises and promotions, but the real prize was what came a week later. A woman, clothed in a robe of midnight plum, appeared on his doorstep and, before he knew it, they were rolling in the floor, locked in a wild embrace. John didn’t ask questions, nor did he care to. This felt right, he thought, and who’s so important as to question that feeling? Nor did he ask questions when a baby with his emerald eyes appeared on his doorstep, swaddled in furs with a letter addressed to him. The letter explained it all and, John being as superstitious as he was, felt no need to incur the wrath of that woman by refuting her claims to be the Greek goddess Lyssa. He tucked the letter away in his end table and set about clearing up his apartment for his new child. Within a few weeks, the work in Germany dried up and John moved back to Dublin, where he worked in his father’s microbrewery once more, making beer, whiskey, and even rum, on occasion. Ambrose grew swiftly, always the tallest and strongest among his classmates, though he was always the laziest. His father enrolled him in self-defense classes at the age of eight, most of which taught a plethora of martial styles from the Irish Dornálaíocht, Coraíocht, Speachóireacht, and Bataireacht to Tae Kwon Do, though he focused mainly on the Irish arts at the behest of his father. He was a natural hand at it, and he eventually grew to be the best fighter at the class, easily overwhelming his sparring partners with his speed and ferocity even at only ten years old. While it helped him to focus in school, his grades remained meager at best, except for History, English, and Physical Education.
12-14 years, First Monster Encounter:
When Ambrose turned thirteen, he noticed how one of the men at the brewery eyed him constantly whenever he visited his father. The man’s name, apparently, was James, and he had a balding head, greasy skin, and beady brown eyes that reminded Ambrose of a pig he’d seen at the market once. He was frighteningly lean, however, and hunger radiated from him. As Ambrose watched the large water wheel one day, James came upon him and seized the young lad’s shoulders in his hands, squeezing them tightly as he rasped, “You will sate me for a time, demigod.” And with that, his lips curled back, revealing jagged, black teeth resembling craggy granite peaks and sank them down into Ambrose’s right shoulder. Ambrose screeched and tried to shove James off, but his grip was too strong. However, the screech was heard by his father, who came sprinting out and sent a kick into James’s back, sending him over and into the wheel. His head broke through a board, and Ambrose watched from the ground as his father stopped the wheel, holding the man beneath the sapphire water until the bubbles stopped. When the wheel resumed, wet dust fell from it, and Ambrose’s time in Ireland came to an end. The letter was pulled from his father’s nightstand, and the spidery words on that vellum were read for the first time in over a decade. The two of them left for America the next day on a jet.
Ambrose’s life in America was silent and easy. His father moved them into a nice apartment in Los Angeles after getting a job with a Hollywood producer as a military advisor, and Ambrose attended the public schools there, always sticking out due to his accent and the way he carried himself. He was ever watchful of his surroundings, always on the lookout for another James who would try and take another bite out of him. As a result, he never had many friends, nor did he ever really have any acquaintances. He had enemies aplenty, however, and often came home with his fists bloody and bruised. His father was smitten with Hollywood, however, so Ambrose never had to worry about getting into trouble for his fighting. He’d come home, pour rubbing alcohol on the broken skin, and wrap his hands in gauze before sitting down with a beer and a cigarette to watch movies. It wasn’t a truly happy existence, but it was safe. However, it came to an end when he turned eighteen and his father told him to leave. Ambrose was given money, a plane ticket to New York, and whatever possessions he could carry before being sent on his way. He landed in New York a few hours later.
One fake ID later and Ambrose had a job in an Irish pub called The Firefly’s Respite. He worked day and night for next to nothing, seeing as how the owner let him sleep in the attic. However, his paranoia was alive and well, and the camp his father told him to run off to was fresh in his mind. “Camp Half-Blood,” he said, “a place for freaks like you.”
Well, Ambrose thought, I suppose a place for freaks might be fairly interesting.
So off he went, with a few hundred dollars in his wallet, a pack on his back, and a pack of cigarettes in his pockets. Following a crudely drawn map, Ambrose walked all the way from Manhattan, boots hitting the asphalt. His journey was not without its perils, and he wound up sprinting along the road and diving into a ditch to avoid a Harpy ripping his back open. This pattern of walking, attempting to fight, and evading summed up his walk to the Camp, but he eventually arrived without being too terribly injured, though he was quite incensed.