It seems I've done exactly what I didn't want to do. Sorry for the extended wait for what is most likely a meager chapter. Updates will continue to be slow. It is becoming difficult to do so, to say the least. I might attempt to wrap up this fic quickly if it comes to that. For now enjoy the chapter and feel free to PM me.

Chapter Fourteen: Purloin

November 19th, 2012
1:16pm
Earth

Agony.

Pure, undiluted, pulsing agony.

That was the only feeling in Percy Jackson's head. He didn't even know how it came to be. It was nothing like the times where he was launched into a wall by a monster or whacked his head on the floor. It was nothing like the disoriented, blurry feeling of concussions or aching headaches that developed slowly into migraines. No, this feeling here wasn't right – it wasn't the natural response to injury, it wasn't the body's way to instill caution and fear.

It was a coursing, writhing thing, a parasite in his very nerves. Something was in his head. He felt its intent – all destruction and rage and malice – but there was also intelligence and cunning, deceptiveness and trickery. It was almost conscious, like strands of thread weaving its way through his thoughts with unimaginable pain.

He had almost forgotten about the two women in his apartment and when he turned to once again look at them the agony flared with unrestrained wrath. He was choking on his own contorted emotions, ones he knew spawned not from his own mind. He felt his fingers twitching without his consent, pain flaring through his muscles with the only relief being to follow this foreign instruction.

His whole body yearned for relief from this pain in anyway possible.

Torn between morality and self-preservation, he knew not what this thing was capable of – what it could possibly make him do. It was slowly shredding the self-control he had left, the will to fight it no matter the pulsing behind his temples. He thought he muttered something of a warning to the occupants in the room – at least he hoped he did – before the pain was back with flare and what was he doing his body was moving and acting and–

His sword arced through the air, narrowly missing both girls. He panicked, the momentary wrenching of wrongness emanating from his very core allowing him a short reprieve. He didn't do that, he would never harm anybody, any mortal, for any reason. He closed his eyes with all his might. Whatever force was at work in his thoughts, it was relentless and powerful. With dread, he knew he wouldn't be able to fight it – hell he'd already lost – and he was paralyzed (figuratively) with the realization.

Sensing his apparent struggle, the pain became blinding and numbing, increasing tenfold, his senses a mess of indiscernible motions. He wasn't even sure he was conscious anymore. His thoughts were floating ideas without tangible meaning, his body moving with conviction and purpose. He was nowhere and everywhere, insubstantial and inexistent, and it was completely indescribable.

He was suddenly back in Tartarus – his blood racing, adrenaline pumping, fear racking through his being. A hopeless desperation for any form of rescue – his body starved for clean air and sunlight, for the ocean breeze and salt water. It wanted the raw feeling of soil beneath his feet and wind through his fingertips, snowflakes on his eyelashes and the dim, guiding light of the stars…

He opened his eyes but he did not see. The blackness was infinite. This night was starless, the darkness consuming the light until there was nothing but a void of indecision. He felt the raw toxicity of the air, the darkness that creeped into his pores and bones and suffocated his breath. His muscles were sluggishly unresponsive, a sweet lullaby echoing in his head, goading his surrender. He did not feel the air and the earth, the opposing forces as if they were one, forever apart but struggling to grasp one another, with him stuck in between, but he knew it was there, its struggle present in every breath he took.

The air was gone. The earth was gone. Gone was he into the bowels of the Underworld, left to fend for himself… alone. That wasn't right, he was not alone. He didn't have to do this alone, he chose this, chose to decide to fight to protect Annabeth.

Death was not an option.

Poison was his salvation.

All he ever needed to do was understand. Water is everything: water is life and death and apart of everything in the world that can be defined as either. He could control it all. He could feel it course through his own veins, he could feel it swirling in the poison surrounding him. He could strangle Misery with her own poison because he could control it – he would make Misery feel his Misery.

Tears, a terrified whimper, and suddenly the piercing pain was back enveloping his thoughts and light was everywhere.

He wasn't in Tartarus. Not anymore. He looked in horror to realize what just occurred – to what he'd done – before his hand swung out once more out of his control and gripped the hair of one of the fleeing girls and yanked her to the floor.

He was a bystander in his own body. He let the thing get control.

No!

The agony was back, but this time it didn't matter. Nothing would make him relive those memories, never again. Tartarus was over. His nightmares couldn't get any worse – they were gone, memories of a place he would never visit again. He would not watch himself commit these atrocious acts due to that feral bloodlust, he would not condone these actions.

However, he didn't know how long he could fight this agony before he finally gave out and worst of all he didn't know what would happen if it came to that. With whatever strength he mustered from nowhere, he told the women to flee. They needed to be far from him. No one could be near him - not when this thing was in his head and he was left defenseless to protect those around him from himself.

He didn't know how much time passed, how much time he spent trying to keep his body motionless and his own, before the agony receded and he collapsed to the floor, back against whatever he found himself to be leaning on. He had no strength to look.

He had no strength to do anything but stare aimlessly, eyes locked on the sword he'd impaled into the door.

•ψ•Ω•ψ•

Natasha Romanoff's vision was hazy and her head was pounding like someone gave it a harsh blow with a steel baseball bat. She knew the feeling well.

Wherever she was it was incredibly dark, a single candle as the only light source, placed a few feet in front of her. The chair beneath her was hard as rock and cold as ice – most likely steel. She felt and heard the cuffs rattle on her wrists, currently bound together behind her back, behind the back of the chair. There was a rope pinning her chest to the back of the seat as well. Her feet were separately tied to the chair legs – that's what it felt like, even though she couldn't see it for herself.

Her mouth tasted like copper and her muscles ached from her position, especially the ones in her neck.

An edge of panic laced her thoughts, although she never allowed it to cultivate. She would never let fear control her – she had all the skills she needed at her disposal and rational thought in situations like this was one of those very skills.

What was the last thing she remembered before finding herself in this circumstance?

She was heading back over to Avengers Tower – that's right, because for some odd reason Spider-man had changed his mind and returned in accordance to S.H.I.E.L.D's laws on vigilantes. After that…

A man? A woman? Someone had spoken to her…

And now she was here.

Everything else was a hazy blur, as if the memories were obscured by a fog. The only thing that seemed to explain why this was was that some sort of supernatural force was involved. Great. She hated feeling like she was out of her league, even though she knew she could hold her own as well as any other Avenger.

She sighed deeply, knowing just how undesirable her situation was. Carefully she tested out the strength of her bonds, realizing that whomever had tied them had indeed known how to properly tie restraining knots.

Attempting to shift as much as she could, she attempted to grab the small pocket knife she would have kept in her pocket, not surprised to find it wasn't there. That was fine. It was purely tactical in a way – usually people underestimated her and when they found the knife, thinking they'd found the only weapon on her person and henceforth ceased their search.

Her casual clothes were simple – jeans and a shirt with a rather un-modest neckline. The tricky part was going to remove the concealed knife in her brassiere, be it she needed it. However, as she was Black Widow, she usually didn't even need a knife for this situation – just a lot of pain tolerance.

In one quick, jerky motion, she grit her teeth and dislocated the thumb of her left hand. Just as quickly she freed her hand of the hand cuff and popped the joint back into place, feeling the muscles start to swell and bruise in irritation. Her hand wouldn't be at its finest – one of the biggest disadvantages with this means of escape – but if she thundered through the pain it would still obey what she told it to do.

Hands now free, she attempted to work the knot between her shoulder blades. The kidnapper was smart – the knot was placed right where it would be difficult to reach, especially since it was limiting her torso and upper arm movement. Straining to reach it simply made the knot tighter, and Natasha clenched her jaw in irritation.

Switching tactics, she managed to get her arms in front of her. She carefully proceed to attempt to loosen the rope against her chest, just enough to retrieve the concealed blade in her brassiere. It wasn't quite right to call it a blade – it was a very sharp pin that was crafted into the undergarment, which could be retrieved by pressing near the point – causing the pin to reveal itself by slicing through the fabric.

It was a very dangerous design, as a forced blow to the chest could send the pin into her chest or arm, but Natasha was usually careful enough for it to never come to that. It fact, she'd never been punctured by it yet.

Managing the find the spot, she carefully pulled the pin free, wary of its tips and used to it to slice the rope tied to her torso as she brought it free. Arms and chest now freed, she carefully manipulated the pin into slicing the ropes by her ankles. It wasn't easy, nicking her ankle twice on one foot due to how tightly the rope was bound.

Lastly she used the now dulled blade to pick the lock on the remaining cuff on her hand. Once that was done did she finally stand up, stretching the aches from her limbs. Her body was sore enough to suspect that she had been seated, unconscious, for at least a few hours.

She examined the candle.

It didn't seem to have any obvious triggers – no cracks in the floor, an absence of thin wires – so she risked picking it up in order to further investigate her current prison.

She didn't recognize it, whether that was for better or worse was yet to be determined.

"So many arachnids to manipulate… so many indeed," spoke the calming voice of woman, its origin indistinguishable.

Natasha was immediately prepared for any attack, her stance low and balanced, her mind prepared to block out anything that wasn't considered useful information. She didn't yet know who her adversary was – or where they were for that matter – but she couldn't afford to not be prepared as much as she could especially when magic of some sort could be involved.

"Such a pity you are such a strong woman, such I pity I will have to break you… piece… by… piece…" continued the voice ominously, smooth as honey.

Natasha knew that voice, although she couldn't pinpoint its basis. Where has she heard it before? Who did it belong to?

"I wonder what he'll have me do… will he want your body shredded or your mind shattered first? Decisions, decisions…" The voice drawled on, most likely just communicating at this point for dramatic effect. Natasha attempted to tune it out while she tried to just remember.

"Your friends will look for you… as they should. Maybe I should keep you sane just to see your anguish when you lead them all to their deaths…"

Natasha locked her jaw. That's was this was. Some play to get to the Avengers, some power crazy person wanting a shot against the best of the best. That was fine with her. Nobody truly understood their team's strength and many who challenged them were ridiculously unaware of how different they actually were.

But… something stirred inside her stomach, even as she assured herself. A sense of unease settled into her gut, as if she should make sure this never came to be.

"Who are you?" She asked in return, not really expecting a decent answer.

The silken voice chuckled in some sort of savage delight, but gave no other response.

Natasha took a more thorough sweep of her surroundings – no windows, external light sources, forms of temperature or air moderation, in fact – there wasn't even a door to exit the room, at least not an obvious one in the typical sense. She also couldn't discern any colours – everything seemed to be different muted forms of grey.

The walls, ceiling and floor were smooth as granite, no marks or cracks or creases anywhere. Even the steel chair she sat it seemed untouched. The candle in her hand flickered with real heat – yet as she examined it more closely, none of its wax had melted in any shape or form.

There was only one explanation for these attributes: Magic.

Now that she was certain, she was also much more uncertain of how she was going to get out of this or stop the Avengers from walking into what was most definitely a trap.

•ψ•Ω•ψ•

Steve Rogers was still not prepared for this rest of his day.

Since meeting the stranger that played tricks on his mind or encountering the teenaged spider-like vigilante he thought – maybe – the next few hours could be less eventful. But whenever has his wishful thinking ever come true?

When J.A.R.V.I.S. finally announced the arrival of one incredibly late Natasha Romanoff, whom was supposed to be here a while ago to recover the unconscious Spider-man, he couldn't have helped being relieved at her presence. He really didn't want to deal with the unconscious teenager across the room, especially when he woke up. Steve had no doubt that when that time came it would be an utter disaster. His relief was cut short, however, when Stark's electronic butler informed them that she was accompanied by an unidentified stranger, whom she had granted access with her and refused to identify.

It was an understatement to say it rung a few bells.

With some sixth sense he always seemed to have in the face of danger, Steve suddenly wondered if Natasha's presence was such a good idea after all. Even if they had current custody over an incapacitated mutant they had no idea what to do with.

A quick glance towards Stark indicated he was just as baffled by this mysterious presence. Steve was only slightly grateful that he wasn't the only one left out of the loop – as it often seemed to be these days.

"That's a breach of protocol." Tony exclaimed, dramatically offended, "Jarv, run a facial rec-scan. I'm not in the mood for any more surprises."

For the amount of information that was lost on Steve in that statement, he absolutely agreed with the last part. There had been a surplus of surprises today – enough to last the rest of the week at least.

"My sensors seem to not be working properly. I'm sorry sir, I cannot do so." J.A.R.V.I.S. replied.

A skeptical look crossed Tony's face, which Steve mirrored. He understood enough of that to realize that there was something wrong with these events. Particularlywhen Romanoff started hiding things it became a sign that there was trouble afoot. And Steve was pretty much done with trouble since the whole Loki incident. Couldn't superheroes like him ever have some sort of break?

Just as Tony was about to ask another question – Steve guessed because his mouth was hanging slightly ajar – the private, restricted, supposedly avengers-only elevator opened revealing their guests.

There was Natasha, in all her casual glory, a hint of a smile on her lips and secrets in her eyes. Although that was not what caught Steve's attention. It was the figure next to her.

The Captain blinked once, twice, before rubbing his eyes. He had to be certain of what he was seeing. There Romanoff was, dressed to impress in the subtlest way possible, but by her side–

What in the world?

During his bafflement that Stark, as per usual, was utterly oblivious to, proceeded to walk towards the arrivals with a displeased frown on his face.

A jolt raced down Steve's spine, worrying him enough to lock him in place. Paralyzed by his own misjudgment, he was stuck watching the next set of events unfold like a performance. Something was so terribly wrong with this picture.

"Do I know you?" Tony asked, to which Steve would have face palmed if he wasn't still frozen in shock. Leave it to Stark to forget the face of someone he'd glanced nearly an hour before.

A sudden overwhelming panic overcame Steve as Tony went wide eyed in skeptical realization, freezing in place like him. The no-longer mysterious stranger held out their hand in a gesture implying a handshake, to which Tony tentatively responded. After all, from everything that they had researched about the guy, Steve hadn't given Tony any real reason to be weary. He'd explained his suspicions, but how was Steve supposed to explain the vibe he'd received – of how he'd sensed some sort of battle-worn professionalism and a tiredness that only came from seeing too much?

But now, in that moment, a strong feeling to make sure that handshake never happened overwhelmed Steve, screaming at him to get himself and Tony as far away as possible.

Steve's alarmed expression and suspicious glances went unnoticed, doing nothing to provide any sort of warning. Tony never even bothered to glance in his direction. In fact, only one person had noticed.

Percy Jackson grinned.

Within that clasp of hands, suddenly Tony was yanked off balance and stumbling forward, only now becoming aware of the impending danger. Steve didn't know what was going to happen, all he knew was that he was too slow and that he was stupid and that he should have just known.

A sword, seemingly spawning mid-air appeared in Percy's left, free hand. The Captain couldn't do anything to help – to stop whatever was about to happen. For all the strength he gained, for all his efforts to hope he never let another friend get injured, he was too far and too slow to do anything. Even when he lunged forward in a futile attempt to tackle Percy.

He blinked and he was suddenly watching helpless as he reached for Bucky's hand, his best friend a breath away, watching as his effort failed and the icy tundra that swallowed him up.

In Tony's defense, he did try to punch Percy in the face. It was a good punch too – straight, hand correctly curled, the power coming from his core and not his arm – but it was easily avoided with a quick shift of posture on Percy's part. With that, Tony was put even more off balance and practically stumbled into Percy.

Steve's eyes scanned Natasha for a fraction of a second and he took in the way she just stood there watching, within distance to disarm Percy, her sly smile gone and a neutral expression of indifference adorning her face. Her eyes were ice cold, their secrets blazing and gaze piercing and unreadable, her posture tense but composed.

Steve was able to shift his eyes once more, locking them with Tony's alarmed ones. Panicked gazes intertwined for but a moment and Steve knew Tony's fear, could see it as clear as day.

Regardless, he was left uselessly watching Percy swing his sword, knowing he'd tackle him too late.

His lunge wasn't going to make a difference and he watched the next few seconds in what seemed like decreased time. It allowed him to quickly admire the skill and ease Percy wielded the blade he possessed, along with the information that he was left-handed or ambidextrous. Always analytical, it did nothing to help him stop the inevitable.

The Captain's breath caught in his throat as the weapon passed clean through Stark's exposed neck.

Steve chocked, grappling Percy's waist a second too late as they both plunged onto the cold marble floor. The Captain's mind was clouded with shock, a silent cry still in his throat as he didn't dare look towards his friend – a friend he had lost all over again. In his distraction, Percy rolled as they fell, getting the upper-hand before using the momentum to separate them.

Steve didn't even think about how in his momentary panic, Percy could have easily injured him in his compromised position. Instead, he'd just jumped away. Both now back on their feet, Steve finally realized Tony was still undoubtedly in one piece. His head was most certainly still attached at the neck, definitely not lolling along the floor with the dead eyes Steve hated more than anything. The dead eyes of comrades on the battlefield, the skies cloudy with anguish and the wind bitter with pain. Percy was standing once again beside Romanoff, where his sword was gripped limply at his side.

"Interesting," the Captain thought he heard the male mutter under his breath.

The events rapidly clicked and he was once again upon them, growling, "Romanoff." His tone even surprised himself with the amount of venom hidden behind it. He didn't know why he didn't immediately jump to Tony's aid, but he supposed it was because in his subconscious he knew Stark was fine. He also didn't know why he didn't once again attack Percy and contain him. There was something in Natasha's expression, something that beckoned his challenge.

"Looks like I might have overstayed my welcome," the woman in question responded, her voice a purr and definitely not the indifferent voice of Natasha Romanoff. Before he had a chance to do anything in response, she vanished, leaving behind but a fading after image of a beautiful busty blonde-haired woman with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. When he blinked, any sign anyone had been there disappeared completely, to the point where he thought he almost imagined the mysterious blonde woman.

Percy still stood there, although when Steve looked at him he dropped his sword with a loud clang across the granite floor. He was wide eyed and terrified, stumbling backyards as he glanced around him. He ran his hands through his hair before falling to his knees and whispering a hopeless, "I – I didn't do it."

Leaving a disgruntled Percy to wallow in probably fake pity, Steve turned back towards Stark. He saw his fellow avenger was still standing in the exact same spot, shock written all over his face. With a shaky voice that quickly steadied with time, he questioned, "I'm not dead?"

Steve couldn't help the grateful grin that creeped his features as he shook his head in a slow, "No."

Taking a deep breath, Steve went back towards the male he didn't know to think of anymore before yanking him up by the arm. There was no struggle, he simply let himself be lead wherever.

The Captain was unsure what to think. It was obvious that it was not Romanoff who was with him, rather someone else with the ability to look like her and disappear. Which meant there was some sort of supernatural force involved. That's why he allowed himself to consider there was the slightest chance that Percy hadn't acted of his own free will.

Regardless of what he believed, Percy Jackson was now in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody for the attempted murder of Tony Stark.