Hey everyone! Wow, it's been a long time since I worked on this story! I'll be revamping the chapters, and then hopefully continuing. Make sure to review!

His feet slapped against the pavement as he ran. He didn't know where he was running, only what he was running from. His past. Slap! Slap! Slap! Faster and faster, his feet pounded against the ground, fast as he had in the caves full of oil. He ran faster, determined to outpace the memories that plagued him for four years. Four years of seclusion, four years of depression, four years of torture. Four years of reliving his best friend's death, four years of seeing her face, and four years of reliving their last goodbyes. Four years coping with his grandmother's loss, and four years living in the hellhole of Virginia. He could never run fast enough to put all that behind him, but he could still try. Kicking it up to a speed that Olympians would be jealous of, he sprinted, hitting the ground so hard, it would come as no surprise if the concrete were to crack beneath his feet. Suddenly, he stopped. There was no point in running any longer. He was running from the only thing that had ever brought him happiness. Sighing, he reached to his throat, touching the claw hanging around his neck.

"Ares," he whispered. "Fly you high, old friend. Fly you high." He reached to his pocket, and pulled out the square of laminated paper. It was faded, wrinkled, and torn after never leaving his side for four years, but the smiles of the boy and girl in the photo were unmistakable, and now he smiled again looking at it, though this smile was laced not with happiness, but nostalgia and sadness. He missed her so terribly. Shaking his head, he returned the photo to his pocket. It was ridiculous, he thought, that even the hell that was war was nothing compared to this. Dodging swords would almost be easier that being away from everyone he left behind, and he would rather eat a bullet than never see her again. After all, at least the bullet would be a quick, and painless, death. Snapping himself out of his trance, he once again began to run. Yet even he was aware of the tears forming in the corners of his eyes. They were old acquaintances, even friends. They, at least, were always there.

"Gregor!" his mom shouted. "Dinner is ready!". Gregor sighed, taking off his ear buds. Why did she have to go through charade of these "perfect family dinners" anyways? Couldn't she understand that their family was broken, broken far beyond repair? It was ridiculous that she could not see it, even when it was painstakingly obvious. At the end of his time in the underland, his family was still the most important thing to him, the thing that he had fought to keep together, but now they were strangers. He never knew what they were thinking, and they didn't have the slightest idea of his thoughts. They knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about his anger, his sadness, his love for the people he was torn away from. They would never be able to understand, even if they knew.

No, he thought, that wasn't entirely true. While Boots, or Meg as she liked to be called now, didn't remember anything about the underland (besides, of course, having a strange affection towards cockroaches, and the propensity for talking to said insects), every detail was recalled, remembered, and relived by Lizzie. His sister was, along with running, his only source of sanity. Unlike his mom, who would shut him out at the mere mention of the underland, Lizzie was happy to talk, to share stories, and even keep in touch with Mrs. Cormaci, and through her, the underland. The last one of these though, was one thing that Gregor was not so fond of.

"Lizzie," he had said a million times, writing them is not going to bring us back to New York. Yet she still wrote anyways, passing on to Gregor the messages Luxa sent. And always, Gregor would discard them without reading them. Gregor's mother was enthused at this, it being the first sign of moving on, but Lizzie wasn't so sure. She knew he would always want to see them again, but the memories were just too painful for him. He couldn't stand to be away from them for so long, and trade only letters. Still, she had to try, every time.

"Open it!" Lizzie would urge, each time she passed along a message. Each time, he would shake his head sadly. "What if it's Luxa? What if she wants to see you again?" she continued. He didn't say a word, no matter how many times this happened. He simply reached over, and dropped the scroll into his wastebasket. Over four years, the pile of discarded messages grew, and so did the sea around him, leaving him on an island of his own, the hope of him rejoining everyone else decreasing each time he received a scroll.

This particular night, though, as he reached to discard the scroll, as was his ritual, he noticed the scrawling letters on the side that read,

Gregor, I know you have not received any of my previous letters, but I need your help. Please read this if it arrives.

-Luxa

Solemnly, he broke the ribbon binding the scroll. Reading it over slowly, methodically, he pored over the words. When he reached the end, his eyes grew wide, and the grief he felt gave way to anger, hatred towards a man he didn't know. He knew nothing about the man behind the name, only the name itself, dripping with malice.

Damien.

Wow, I think that that is a lot, lot , lot more powerful than the original first chapter. Yes, it is short, but short and powerful is, in my opinion, much better than long and pointless.