Hey-o everyone, I'm back. This story I'm updating a little more slowly, as you have noticed, since I haven't yet finished writing it. For all of you that have enjoyed this so far, I'm glad, and for all of you that are a little concerned with the descriptions and introspection, I'm sorry. This is one of the few things lately I have written purely for my own enjoyment, and while I really hope you guys enjoy this, I won't be changing it, either. That being said, I hope you guys enjoy, and stay awesome!

-ROC6

Annabeth had broken to pieces long ago. If one were to ask her exactly when, though, she wouldn't be able to say. For all she knew, it was when she fell down down down into the pits of Tartarus (a part of her flinched at the name, and the voices cackled sharply Tartarus Tartarus Tartarus!) that the failing glue that had always held her together had fallen apart, but it could have happened as long ago as when she was six years old and realized her father never wanted her (but who would want a demon like her? (Percy Percy Percy Percy Percy)). And there was a part of her, buried deep inside, that thought maybe the final blow was when she came above and realized the pit was more of a home to her than the world from which she came. (The pit called to her still, but she knew she could never go back (she was already there).)

But when, exactly, she had broken apart didn't matter, she realized, as the Fates continued to bend her and twist her and force her fate out of her hands, (it was too much to ask to be free,) because the world didn't care for her as much as she didn't care for it. And it hurt her to live and to be forced to jump through the hoops set before her, for she wasn't some mindless beast, set to do the bidding of others. She could see clearly now, without the veil of good and evil, for there was no good and evil, only her (them(us)) versus the world, for right and wrong no longer mattered in a world as black as hers. And yet, the mindless beasts around her continued to order her, look to her. What do we do, Annabeth? They begged her to know. What's the plan? And there was a part of her, a part she'd long given up trying to squash, cheering deep inside at the desperation in their eyes and the distress painted along the curves of their faces as they sought some response-any response-she'd give them. But every time, she pulled away. For no matter who gave them, orders were still orders, and she hated following orders. (The voices cackled in her mind.) And with each passing day, her desperation was growing stronger and she just- wanted- to-

It burbled up deep inside her from a long forgotten well. The sound was jagged and scratchy and it pierced the heavy silence. The others must have thought her insane, but she couldn't bring herself to care. They backed away slowly with shaking hands and wide, cornered eyes. (What were they to do?)

"Annabeth," a blue-eyed girl ventured, her jagged black hair blowing from the soft silver glow of her skin in the rising storm, "Annabeth. Are you alright?"

Annabeth doubled over, for she couldn't contain it anymore, and the broken, disconcerting laughter continued to bubble up from somewhere, and she couldn't hold it back. Her eyes squinted and her face contorted and she laughed so hard it hurt, but something about it was just so very funny. It just kept coming, and she couldn't breathe now as the excruciating pain spread throughout her body into something much deeper, already shriveled and weak, and she was laughing so hard her eyes were burning and there were tears running down her cheeks-

Then suddenly, it wasn't laughter, but deep and heavy sobbing, and now she definitely couldn't breathe, for how was it fair that such a weak and broken creature as herself would survive when Nico di Angelo was dead? She felt an arm around her shoulders as the unearthly silence that had fallen over the funeral was punctured only by her broken sobs. The others didn't understand, couldn't understand, what they had been through. (Only Nico had.) She pressed her face into a familiar chest smelling faintly of the ocean and cookies and memories and shadows and darkness and fear-

Then suddenly her face was stiff and dry, and all emotions were gone. Her face was as expressionless as Percy's steely gaze as she watched the black flame devour the last of the gorgeous cloth, black as night with burning red undertones and the wings of an angel stitched so delicately on top. All of the while Percy had not shed a tear, only gazed into the fire with the same detached gaze she mirrored, the same fury hidden beneath. And there was something in that fury, a passionate, lively gleam, buried deep inside the fury that now consumed her so completely (except for the tiny, fragile, human part of her soul she'd buried in the ash of her dreams) that captivated what was left of her capacity to feel.

The gods had done this. The thought came unbidden to her mind, a truth she still tried to squash deep inside her. A part of her latched onto the thought. (Yes! The voices screeched, louder, louder, Yes!) The gods had done this, and, as she watched a golden eyed girl with a cool detachment as she cried over her dead brother, it came to her, not for the first time, that it wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair.

The gods had never been fair, she knew that. She knew demigods often died young. But the gods had done this, not the beasts of Tartarus. The gods were the monsters. They were children, all of them, and they didn't deserve their thrones. Because, of course, Hermes was mad at Aphrodite and went and stole her hand mirror. And, of course, Ares and Hephaestus both tried to retrieve it, making the situation worse. And logically, Apollo and Artemis both sided with Hermes, and things continued to detonate, one explosion setting off another, until the gods were on the brink of a civil war, and needed slaves to do their bidding.

She and Percy had been the first pick, and she had to admit, it amused her to see Zeus' face turn such a revolting shade of red. Nonetheless, the King of the Gods moved on, calling on Nico di Angelo to stop the war in their stead, but he wasn't ready. He wasn't ready, and that's why he appeared in the dining pavilion with his sword through his stomach and his body caked with blood.

And all of it could have been avoided if the gods. Simply. Grew. Up. And it made her so angry, brewed at a fury she had long kept buried deep inside, all of the rage she harbored over all of the death she'd seen, and sent it boiling over until her mind was blank and there was nothing to stop her (as the voices edged her on). She was furious, (she had to be,) and everyone would know it. (For if she wasn't furious, she might just get lost in the sorrow inside her (as deep and dark as the pits of Chaos (and she knew there was no escape (there never would be), for she had seen too many die (felt them too close (and too real)) to let herself feel anymore))). She was furious, for she had nothing else to be.

And suddenly, the flames were gone (Nico was gone), and she had nothing and no one but herself. (And Percy, there was always Percy.) So she took a hand in hers, relishing in its warmth, and its sensation of living. When she was with Percy, there wasn't anything they couldn't overcome. They could rule the world and watch it burn down around them, if only for the sheer pleasure of it all. Their hands were slick with blood, and everything they touched turned red, a form of twisted Minos' curse, so why bother being careful? Their everything broke anyway, nothing good had ever come of careful.

And maybe she was broken, she knew, as Percy led her towards the woods, but she had broken long ago. And they could rule the world together and watch it burn right to the ground.

-()-()-()-()-()-()-()-()-

Annabeth felt like an invader in a stranger's body. For no, these couldn't be her hands, so terribly weak and pale and breakable (broken). Her hands were swathed in (sticky) red, and even if no one could see it, she could (and it was so sticky, why was it so sticky? (why couldn't' she get it off? (it wasn't coming off- (it wasn't coming off it wasn't coming off it wasn't coming off, it wasn't-)))). Her hands glowed an ethereal scarlet, far too beautiful for what it was, for what it said, all of the words echoing in the empty space inside her where no one else could hear. And she couldn't bring herself to care for the tiny things that used to seem so important.

What good were books and letters with hands that ripped and clawed? (Red, so very very red.) What good were classes and numbers with wretched gods like hers? (That screamed and shrieked and killed.) What good were dreams and drawings when all her life was dead? (And maybe she was, too, dead to the world where it really mattered.)

It was so hard to act like it mattered anymore. So very, strenuously difficult. For she had no need of useless classes with useless teachers droning on about things they did not understand. She had no need of dances and homework and essays and dreams. She had no need of a perfect life with perfect friends and a perfect family, for life was not perfect. She had no need to plan for tomorrow when she couldn't even face today, for she had no dreams and she had no future, and it felt like she was the only one that saw it. And it was so very difficult to act like nothing was wrong when everything was so very, very wrong.

And she knew he felt it, too, saw it in the thrumming of his hands, the barely constrained power hidden in his smile, the harshness in his eyes. She wanted nothing more than to spend time with him, to spend all her time with him, the very little she had left until their world burned down around them. She wanted to count every shadow in his eyes and every scar across his mind, examine every detail about Percy so thoroughly that she would never forget. For the gods were wrong, and they were wrong and everything was so very, very wrong, but at least, for now, they could be wrong together.

-()-()-()-()-()-()-()-()-

Dreams had plagued Annabeth as much as memories did, with their ever-shifting focus. Their ever-shifting reality. Nothing in dreams was real, but somehow it seemed more grounded than any reality she'd experienced in a long while. The way shadows crept in through every crevice and every silence was punctuated by some distant sobbing from some broken person she couldn't see. It all seemed as though the veil separating her gaze from the truth of the world had been lifted, and in her dreams, it was clearer than ever. Sometimes, her mind screamed of fire and brimstone, the stench of death rifling her features and sifting through her form, as though counting the days until it claimed her, and sometimes it was her and Percy, running and hiding and scratching and clawing and fighting fighting fighting until they had nothing left to give and darkness claimed them together.

On rare occasions, her dreams betrayed something useful. Marble columns and blue skies and clouds drifting through the sky like scratches from terrible claws that simply refused to heal, barely there and wisp-like, but there nonetheless. Once, her dreams betrayed a meeting, a vision of power and nature, elements of the world pulling at each other's throats not with claws but with words. They were panicked and worried, expressing it the only way they knew how, through petty screams and angry shouts. After all, their two strongest pawns no longer answered their desperate, begging pleas. What were they to do? At one time, even her mother visited her in a dream, everything about her harsh angles and bitterly frigid distance.

A detached gaze and regal structure, gazing down from sharp features and an arched brow, "Your bitterness is unbecoming, Annabeth."

Your bitterness is unbecoming.

Annabeth's mind was blank, nothing but the roaring of blood in her ears and ashes of the blanket that had long ago been lifted from her eyes. The goddess had not bothered with any simple questions about how she'd been, no concern as to what was happening with her daughter, not even the barest hint of affection beneath her mother's stony gaze, merely an assessment of her usefulness and your bitterness is unbecoming. She fought the urge to scream, to start clawing and scratching and pulling at everything that reminded her of the wretched being that called herself Annabeth's mother. The rage that was burning deep inside her, that had slowly been consuming every part of her that was left, hunting them to the nooks and crannies as it burned away every aspect of her that made her who she was, leaving nothing but a supernova of flames burning blindingly hot, screaming at her It's all their fault! It's all their fault! It's all their fault! until she could not distinguish between the screams of the voices and the whispers of her mind as the rage bent and tore and screamed apart that which was already broken.

Athena's ethereal face was twisted with concern, and the goddess was voicing something low, rushed and desperate, but all Annabeth could hear was the screaming of the voices (Liar! Liar! Liar!).

Your bitterness is unbecoming.

She moved with a surgical precision, casting out with all of her strength, for suddenly, in the ever so perfect land of the gods, she was lunging and pushing with every ounce of force she could muster. For though it was a fight she could not win, she only needed one good hit to make her mother bleed and bring the gods to their knees.

And suddenly, she found herself grasping a deadly bronze blade, sharpened to a deadly point. It held itself sure, pointed at her true enemy, and she realized with a start and a long-muted cry that this blade was the one she'd lost in the land beyond dreams, the land black beyond all conception, and she let loose a bitter smile at the memory. How appropriate.

The knife was clasped loosely in her fingers, with a surprising amount of grace and enough strength that no force could pull it free from her grasp, it was like a paintbrush in a master's hand as she took one careful, beautiful stroke after another, graceful in their deadly arcs. And her mother, her cunning, stupid mother, had her back pressed tight to one of her sickeningly perfect marble pillars.

A grin rose to Annabeth's face, filled with a pain so deep and suffering not even time could help it. The grin, happy as it may seem on the surface, contorted her expression into one of pure pain, enough to echo through a thousand lifetimes and start a thousand wars. And she knew, as she watched her mother's carefully controlled mask crumble from the horror, that her mother had finally realized how deep her hatred ran, and how sure it led her feet. Annabeth knew, as maybe her mother did not, that the most stunningly beautiful souls could fade to a brittle, broken mask. That the kindest souls, always filled with a warm smile and a comforting grasp, could switch to a venomous, leeching cruelty. That even the brightest souls, innocent in their childlike wonder, could become corrupt and jaded, broken under the weight of the world. And her mother, her stupid, stupid mother, had finally wondered why she would be any different. Had finally realized that she had asked too much of her favorite pawn and broken her to pieces and crushed them to dust. That none of Athena's daughter lived in the figure that stood in front of her.

A sharp, crackling laugh slipped through her lips. A shimmering, deadly point pressed into perfect porcelain skin, puckering the flesh, if it could be called that, to the point of any movement casting the goddess away and spreading her essence to the pit. Annabeth wanted to watch her glittering, glimmering mother burn for all eternity, if that's what it took to keep her away.

"You don't even know me, mother," she spat the word, every unsaid curse bleeding into the phase. She was seven again, and her mother was gone, having left her with a monstrous woman and the father that never wanted her. She was twelve, and the boy she'd loved like a brother went and stabbed her in the heart. She was sixteen, watching the same boy lay still on a cold marble floor. She was all those people and none of them, some horribly twisted, warped version of who she'd been and who she could've been. She was beyond the point of caring, her bitterness filling her up and hollowing her out as she stared dead-eyed into the gaze of her mother, the woman that was supposed to care about her.

She searched her mother's gaze, spotting a strange light glowing deep within their depths, and she let out a bloodcurdling shriek, "And I don't want your pity!"

Her leg was aching again and she could feel all of her scars, burning and aching as if they had been carved seconds ago. The sensation made her want to collapse on the spot, but her grin merely widened, pulled and twisted by the force of her anger, as her gaze fixed on some point in the distance and she pressed with all of her might.

She watched with a frozen disinterest as her mother released a startled gasp, distanced from the one from whom she came as a single drop of honeyed ichor gathered at the tip of her knife, aimed expertly at her mother's throat, before Morpheus slashed his ties and she found herself in the realm of the waking.

Percy offered no words and neither did she, only love love love as the world shrunk around them, the power of it singing through her veins until nothing else existed but the smell of chocolate by the ocean and a burning, bleeding green.

-()-()-()-()-()-()-()-()-

When they decided something had to be done, Annabeth wasn't sure. She wasn't even sure if they'd ever said it, ever offered a word aloud about what needed to be done, but there was no argument as their gazes locked and their minds met and everything came together. Something needed to be done. And so they left in the dead of night, when nothing living stirred, their whole beings thrumming with energy as they realized that finally, finally, something was going to happen. Something was going to change. (Yes! Yes! Yes! The voices screeched, louder, louder, louder, YES! YES! YES!)

They knew, as they strapped weapons to themselves, as many as they could carry, that it was suicide. (The voices liked that (beautiful destruction (peace)).) They knew, as they packed the last of their ambrosia and nectar, that they may not return. And, if they were to consider it, they'd realize there was a part inside of them that relished it. The little part of them that could still feel felt nothing more than the never ending pull towards the other and the overwhelming, bone-crushing urge to end it all. To slowly let everything crumble to dust as it simply… Stopped.

But no, that couldn't happen. Annabeth felt it inside her as she raised her gaze to Percy's. They would not stop, could not stop, until each and every god had paid. The gods had sinned, and they were tired of being dolls (so fragile and breakable). For that's what everyone was, to the gods. Dolls, to be played with and cast aside once their usefulness had worn thin. They were left with no choice of their own until they were broken so far beyond recognition that the gods grew tired of them and cast them aside like the oversized children they were, already squabbling over their newest set of toys.

She'll admit that the lobby man took some… Persuading, but eventually, he saw reason.

At the bloody tip of her sword.

The elevator ride was long, painstakingly so, and the atrocious music that always punctuated the ride was blaring in the background, but Annabeth was deaf to it all. Percy's arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders, grounding her to the reality of what they were about to do. He held her as if he might never hold her again, pressing her close and fiercely strong, but gentle as though he was clutching a cloud, as though she could vanish with a single breath. She held him back just as fierce, just as strong, gently brushing her lips against his. This could be the last time they embrace, and she would sure as Hades make it last. The instant the elevator doors hissed open, they'd have to be soldiers in a field of mines, but for now, for a few more moments, everything was alright, even as the shadows encroached on her mind.

It occurred to her that the voices were oddly silent, the screams that plagued her every thought having gone deathly still. It was almost as if they, too, were aware of what was about to happen, what they had helped drive her to do, and chosen to grant her these last few moments of peace before she met what would likely be her demise. It was as though she and Percy were at the eye of a storm. All of the shadows and fire and blood and death and nightmares and overwhelming fear fear fear were gone. Stripped away. And nothing else mattered for a moment. For one blissful, heart-wrenching moment, nothing else mattered.

Then, the elevator doors hissed slowly apart, and the shadows fell again. The moment was shattered (like her heart (her mind (her soul))). The air was what hit her first (fire and acid and smoke and sulfur and blood-). It was fresher than it should be, even at this height, with the poisonous city churning below. So fresh, so clean, so pure, it made her lungs ache. The sight of a glittering city nestled neatly on a mountaintop greeted her, tiny fires dotting its buildings and singing echoing from somewhere nearby. It was in an ancient tongue she could not understand, but the melody made her heart ache. (It was perfect for the moment (sad and deep, welling up from somewhere in the singer's soul (the part that was all Annabeth knew (where she could see the world as it really was (broken)))).)

Then suddenly, without a word of communication, she was running, every step in time with one of Percy's as they ran down the stone pathway. And maybe it was stupid, maybe it was conspicuous, but any immortals around were likely so immersed in themselves (they always were) that they wouldn't notice a pair of weak mortals traversing the home of the gods. So Annabeth's feet pounded the stone, winding gracefully through the city as though it was some quaint little town tucked away from society rather than the home of (bloody) immortals. Each step carried her closer, closer, closer to her goal, to the huge Grecian temple that stood tall and proud at the mountain's peak, until her legs froze and her feet stuck and she was staring at the throne room of the gods (far too beautiful for all that happened there (and all that would come)).

And it would be so easy, she knew, and it would feel so, so good, but still, she hesitated. A part of her knew that there would be no coming back from this. One step inside, and she would officially be admitting that Annabeth Chase, as the world knew her, was gone, and that she was never coming back. Nevertheless, she steeled herself, sucking in another breath of the too-sweet air flowing through the mountain, tinged with something sweet she could not place (she did not want to think of all the people the gods may have hurt to get it). She locked eyes with Percy, and together they marched inside.

The throne room of Olympus seemed deserted, save for a pair of immortals exchanging hushed words in the center of the room. Annabeth's vision tunneled, everything around her bleeding red as she let a bloodcurdling shriek (they used her they used her they used her (bleeding, sticky red (it wasn't coming off it wasn't coming off it wasn't coming off-))). She drew her blade, carved from the bone of a thousand nightmares, and bounded towards the Olympians. Beside her, she sensed Percy doing the same, and faster than should have been possible, they had arrived at the immortals, foolishly still too immersed in their conversation to notice the pair of demigods converging on them. Annabeth grinned a sadist's grin. The sea god and the wisdom goddess, how ironic that they'd be here together.

Faster than the eye could trace, Annabeth's sword was arcing through the air, then it was biting into her mother's leg. The goddess collapsed next to the sea god, equally afflicted by his own son.

Athena's armor appeared on her immortal frame, her shield and sword magic in a wizard's hand. But even she was not prepared for the ferocity with which Annabeth fought. Like a serpent's tongue, her blade flickered in and out of the chinks in her mother's armor, and ichor was pooling on the floor. But so was blood (beautiful, despicable red), so much of it, and Annabeth wasn't quite sure how she was even still standing (or if she wanted to be).

Her mother wasn't aiming to kill.

Fool.

But she'd play the fool's game, as she lashed out with her sword. Her mother met her, strike for strike now, as Annabeth's mortal frame tired and her mother continued to pull her shots. Eventually, after what felt like hours of exchanging blows, her ivory blade fell with a clatter to the ground. She cackled, then, a twisted, broken sound betraying the horrors inside her, but still, she did not yield. She drew a knife she'd tucked away, and came at her mother again.

The battle was doomed. It had been from the start, and she'd known it. But it did not matter to her. She only wanted to make Athena bleed, to make the goddess suffer and watch it with her own eyes. She charged her mother (if she could even call her that (she did not deserve the title (she was no mother of hers (she used her she used her she used her-)))).

Her attack was doomed, she never even reached the goddess. She found a pair of weathered hands grasping her arms from behind, and her mother plucked her knife from her hand, as though plucking a feather from the wind. But Annabeth did not care, for if the sea god's hands were holding her back, then that meant Percy, her beautiful Percy-

His form lay prone on the ground, and she felt bile rising in her throat until she detected the subtle rise and fall of his chest. He was alive. She could have jumped for joy. He was alive. (He would not leave her alone (at the mercy of the night (he was no Olympian (and her heart pounded with love, it was all she could still feel in the hollow pit that yawned inside her (Percy Percy Percy Percy Percy-)))).)

A hand clasped her eyes, but she could still feel the power that filled the room as the Olympians flashed in one by one. Even once the hands were removed, though, she remained blind. She could not hear, could not see anything but the gentle rise and fall of Percy's chest as he lay collapsed on the floor. He was alive. He was alive. He was alive.

But maybe that was worse.

The gods were debating their fates around them, but she ignored it, ignored the worried looks cast her way and the harsh notes in the immortals' voices. It wasn't until they reached their conclusion that she could bring herself to listen.

To her surprise, of all of the gods to defend them, Dionysus was the one to come forward in their defense. She did not catch what he said as her knees collapsed beneath her and her last glimpse was of a young girl tending a hearth whose flames had long extinguished as the darkness swirled around her until nothing else was left.

She had a sensation she was floating, then no sensation at all.