"What's that noise?" Annabeth propped herself up on her elbow, looking around her dark room sleepily. "Percy, wake up! That's Max." Percy forced himself up and he stumbled to the door.

Max had dozed off on the sofa and they had left him there with an extra blanket and pillows. He hadn't told them anything.

Leaning on the railing and staring down at the ground floor, Percy sat Max thrashing about and yelling in blind panic on the sofa, fighting a nightmare. Percy hurried downstairs, Annabeth hot on his heels.

They reached the bottom of the stairs when Max woke himself up by falling off the sofa and entangling himself in the blankets.

"Max, calm down, calm down." Percy hurriedly removed the blankets and grabbed Max by his bandaged wrists. "It's OK, Max, it's us. Calm down, breathe, alright?" Max stared up at his father with wild, frightened eyes; breathing heavily.

Annabeth dropped to her knees next to Max, feeling his forehead.

"He's a bit warm. Do I get him some ambrosia, nectar or just water?"

"Water will be alright." Percy said softly, a hint of appreciation in his tone. Annabeth nodded, got up and left for the kitchen. "What was it about?" Max continued to stare at him, trying to level his breathing.

Two days after running away, Max had been staggering about the streets, drunk and still drinking. He had stumbled in an alley and leant against the wall. He was quite content there, trying to spot hot girls while downing more WKD.

Something had smacked him across the back of the head and he had blacked out. Being drunk had left his memories fuzzy, but he was certain of being in the white room again.

Unfortunately, there was no hot, mysterious girl sitting on him or in the room. He couldn't ask for her number now.

Second, he realised that somebody had stolen his T-shirt and that he was sat up with his hands tied together on the other side of a floor-to-ceiling thick wooden post.

Looking around, Max squinted in the bright light the room emitted. It was bringing on a headache and worsening his hangover.

Wait… he had a hangover? How long had he been unconscious then?

He sensed a presence behind him and then a cold blade pressed to his throat.

"You've been trying to fight us." A voice growled in his ear. It was familiar, but then again it wasn't. "That's not a good idea, boy." Their fingers traced over the scarlet lines on his left wrist. "This is interesting." The knife moved and was pressed against a healing scar. "This is very interesting." Max bit down on his bottom lip as his captor dragged the knife through his skin and flesh, slicing deeper than Max had ever dared. "Aw, did that hurt?" They cooed mockingly. Their presence vanished and replaced with a white-hot sensation rippling across his shoulders. Max cried out in pain and the fiery object was removed. "I was expecting something more stubborn, more… Roman… but either way, this will be entertaining."

"What do you want?" Max asked through gritted teeth, trying to gain control over his pain.

"What do I want? Well, control over all demigods, Olympus to be rubble and for those pathetic Titans to pay, but I wouldn't mind a chocolate muffin right now." Max frowned, but said nothing. What idiot villain had priorities for a chocolate muffin alongside world domination? "Oh, and I want to tear your stupid family apart."

"They're not stupid." Max growled. The burning item was placed against his lower back and he writhed in pain, whimpering instead of crying out.

"What have done to them recently, boy? What have you said to them?"

"That wasn't me." Max protested weakly.

"Huh, that's funny. Your family has the impression that it was you." Max pulled pathetically on the bonds but his captor grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head against the wooden post.

Stars flared in Max's vision and he was only half-aware of a hand at his throat. "I wouldn't try and escape." The gaoler growled threateningly. "You will only go when I want you to go. But until then, let me set up… entertainment for you." Max didn't hear anything beyond that, unconsciousness taking over.

By 'entertainment', his captor meant watching visions of his family and friends being horrifically killed dozens of times each night, awake or asleep. Each one was gorier and more heart-wrenching than the last. Max couldn't fight them, screaming and crying while pulling on the chains binding him to the wall to no avail.

The latest one was of his brother, Alvie. The younger brother was running up the hill of Camp Half-Blood, towards the pine tree. Peleus wasn't there and neither was the Golden Fleece. The tree appeared long dead, the pines yellow or missing, scattered in clumps about the floor. The grass on the hill was dying and crunchy under Alvie's feet. He slipped on uneven ground in the dark, but he kept running. He was covered in blood and mud, a simple demigod knife in his hand.

He reached the top of the hill, breathing heavily. Max saw tear-streaks slicing through the dirt and blood on Alvie's face.

Alvie looked back and let out a sob. Max looked as well.

The whole of Camp Half-Blood was ablaze. Flies hung low over a pile of decomposing and mutilated bodies. There were about fifty or so figures moving about the piles corpses, prodding at them with long spears and dragging free anyone who was hiding under the dead in feeble attempts of survival.

One of the figures turned and happened to spot Alvie. They pointed and a faint shout reached them. Alvie turned and ran down the hill, but four figures had broken free of their duty and were quickly catching up with him.

Max screamed Alvie's name, but the younger brother didn't register him. The four pursuers had reached the top of the hill. Three of them drew back their right hands, armed with pila. The fourth shouted a command and the three loosed the weapons. Alvie dodged the first one, but the second landed clean through his lower leg. Alvie's cry of pain and terror tore at Max's heart, snatching away all hope and forcing a heavy burden of despair upon it.

The third pila hit home and Alvie's cries were cut out.

Max opened his eyes, crying and choking on his sobs.

It took him a while to realise he was sat in an alley. It was the same alley he had stopped in all that time ago while drunk and on the hunt for a hot girl to flirt with.

Calming his breathing and wiping his eyes on the back of his hand, Max looked round. Nobody walking past the alley paid him any attention.

Ten feet away stood a newspaper stand. Max forced himself to his feet and staggered on wobbly legs to the stand.

Sixteen, possibly seventeen days had passed.

Max let that sink in, partially aware that the stand owner was watching him cautiously. A grubby, starved and shaking sixteen year old boy was either trouble or in trouble.

Before the owner could say anything, Max turned and ran.

He ran and ran and ran, not stopping until the stitch in his side was roaring at him, his legs were ready to fall off and his head was spinning something chronic.

Looking around and breathing heavily, Max saw he had stopped outside a convenience store. He stumbled inside and headed straight for the alcohol section.

He needed a strong drink, damn whoever criticised him to hell.

But he was caught by the shop keeper. Max made a run for it, taking three bottles of strong vodka with him.

Ten minutes later, he was caught by his aunt and parents and knocked unconscious with knock out gas.

Max looked up, realising his father was watching him worriedly. Flashes of his nightmares played in his mind and Max closed his eyes. Emotion was tearing at his heart. The pain was so intense; it was as if the Minotaur was ripping his heart out.

Annabeth returned, resting a hand on Max's shoulder. He flinched, but relaxed slightly when she handed him a glass of water.

Looking for any excuse to stay quiet, Max deliberately sipped slowly at the water. Annabeth knelt next to Percy, her worried expression matching that of her husband's.

At some point, they helped him back onto the sofa and Annabeth tucked the blankets around him, like she used to when he had a nightmare when he was younger.

Max wished he was younger again. He didn't have a care in the world and his parents weren't as worried as they were now about him. They were more playful.

Being younger meant that his siblings and cousins didn't hate him; he had friends that trusted him at school and teachers that praised his good work.

But that had been and gone, never to come back.

In a desperate bid to stay sane, Max focused on the good memories of his childhood. It helped lull him to sleep, his parents sitting next to him. Annabeth was running a hand through his hair, a relaxing method she had used with all her sons as they grew up.

For once, Max had a decent night's sleep and was mildly happy. He had ended the day without arguing with his parents or having a single drink.

That wasn't going to last though.


Sorry if anything gory upset anybody.