Indonesia:

He shooed a few seagulls away, once again claiming his spot on the white sand, water lapping at his feet, never sticking. Platinum silver hair, flowing in the wind, was the only interruption in his vista of flat blue waters. A couple of minutes later, he reached into his pocket to pull out two syringes, one filled with a dark reddish black substance, the other empty. He inserted the empty one first, right above his elbow pit, and drew out blood to the point where his eyes were swimming. Quickly he reached for the other syringe and injected the contents into his bloodstream. Cocking his hand back he threw them far into the ocean and collapsed back onto sand, letting the sun beat on his tan skin, as he shut his eyes and let thoughts of better days wash over him.

Unfortunately, so did the waves.

Half-asleep, he didn't think much of being completely submerged in water. Why would he? He'd lost count of the number of times he had slept at the bottom of the Sound back when… he was younger. It wasn't until his air ran out and he took a deep breath in, expecting more air, instead met with water did his eyes shoot open in alarm, as he quickly scrambled out of the water, quite ungracefully, and pathetically crawled onto the beach, retching water, that he realized his mistake. He was silent for a few seconds before he began slamming his fists into the wet sand, tears mixing with seawater, angry at the water, the ocean, the sand, the everything for interrupting him from his safe haven of memories, for bringing him back to this shit-hole of a life. Eventually his punches slowed, resounding dully on the well flattened sand and his eyes shut once more. He stood before he got to far down memory lane, trudging back to the small hut he had constructed. Normally he would go hunting at this time, bringing back what game he could, or into a nearby town, seducing nurses in order to snatch some AB+ blood and some company, but his little skirmish with ocean and left him drained emotionally and physically. He collapsed onto his little cot (stolen from a nearby village) and stared at the fly on his ceiling, tracking its path until he fell asleep.

Today had been one of his better days.

Somewhere in the Sahara:

The stick snapped in his hands. He could count at least five splinters in the palms he had rubbed raw in vain attempts at a fire. Throwing the pieces away, he trudged through the snow into his tent. It's not like having it made a difference; he would freeze inside or out. He regretted not paying attention to when they were taught how to make fires. But then again, back then fire hadn't been a problem. He shook his head and began picking at his splinters. He couldn't afford to wallow in the past-it would distract his search. He knew the others were counting on him, even if they wouldn't realize it themselves. He hadn't payed attention to First aid either, and threw his hands in the air as the splinters refused to come out. It wasn't his fault: he was seriously ADHD. He opened his small travel sack, taking survey of his supplies. A box full of syringes, some empty some full. 3 well cushioned vials of Greek Fire. A rolled up map, scrap paper, pencils. A few remnant celestial bronze plates and any rations he could scrounge. He pulled out two syringes, one empty, one full of blood. He went through his daily ritual, taking out enough of his own blood and injecting the new one. Once he was sure he wouldn't faint at the slightest movement, he stored the syringes away, and grabbed the slowly unrolled the map, one that showed the complete ancient and modern world, the one he had taken at the last second….

He shook his head again and furious scratched an X over a small part of Sahara. For 8 years, he had accomplished dangerously little. The Central States of America had been searched to no avail, Russia was pointless and now the Sahara had let him down again. He put his head in his hands, letting the map fall to the ground. If this fabled place was in Indonesia or China or Western US or Eastern US or Peru or India or Australia… he didn't know if he had the strength emotionally to visit them, much less thoroughly search each one. He picked the map up again, deciding where to next. He had to keep going. He hadn't lost anything. He couldn't stop. He hadn't lost anything. They had. He had to make sure he remembered that.

Olympus:

Rachel didn't know the person in front of her. She had the same face, the same smile the same eyes, hair, body, everything as one of her best friends. But she wasn't anymore. She wasn't herself. Gone were her intimidating eyes. On good days they were like the sky outside (it never changed in Olympus anymore) gloomy, gray and blank, as her friend recited various nursery rhymes. On a bad day they were filled with tears and rage and confusion and hate and longing, as her friend kicked and screamed against Rachel's grip, but worst of all they would be filled with fear. Rachel didn't know what today was going to be. For now she sat quietly in front of her mute friend, afraid to see her broken again. In slow movements, she reached out and pushed back a couple of loose black strands behind her friends ear.

"Hey." Rachel crooned softly. Her friends eyes met her. Rachel caught her breath. Never before had she responded so quickly. "Can I see your wrist?" Slowly a sun tanned wrist was presented to her. Rachel was stunned, but moved quickly to inject a certain amount of blood before her friend changed her mind. She had drawn her friends blood out and was preparing to inject the new blood when suddenly she heard her voice.

"No." Rachel looked up.

"What?" She croaked.

"No… blood." The words came out slowly.

"You need the blood. Just let me see your wrist."Rachel made sure to keep her voice low, aware of how her friend was slowly edging toward being unstable. She was quite for a while, and Rachel, seeing it as a yes, moved forward with the syringe again.

Her friend snapped her wrist up with a speed Rachel had not witnessed in 8 years.. Her head was flung back as her friend began screaming protests to the blood. Rachel shook of the pain and dived forward pinning her friends wrist to the ground, ignoring the repeated blows to her back.

"NO BLOOD. NO BLOOD. IT'S THE LAST THING. PLEASE IT'S ALL I HAVE LEFT." Once upon a time Rachel would not be shocked by the proper speech, but 8 years later she was stunned. Still she dutifully injected all the blood, and when the plunger had been pushed all the way, Rachel hopped away, her back aflame with pain. Her friend sprung away as well, huddled in a corner nursing her wrist.

"It's gone. It's gone again. I want him back. Where is everyone?" Her friend muttered. Rachel gazed at her curiously.

"Anna-beth?" She slowly turned, a serious look on her face. For a second Rachel had hope. For a second, Rachel thought the spark in her eyes were back. But then a goofy grin appeared on her face and her friend sang.

"Humpty Dumpty had a great fall and all the gods couldn't put together again." Rachel nodded in defeat. She collapsed onto the bed in their makeshift home on Olympus. This time, she didn't hold the tears back.

And that's a wrap! Well I hope this idea turns out as good at it sounded in my head… I guess we'll have to wait and see. If you guys like it and want me to continue writing, Remember to follow and review! I'll probably post the next chapter at 5 reviews.