HOLY SHIZA IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME. Forty-nine days, according to my little thing here. So sorry about that.
And I realized this earlier, but I really hit me now.
Because dear lord my writing really fucking sucks.
I'm going to try to get back into the swing of things,
but let this poor teenager know of her progress, aye?
I've written really quick little oneshots that are more drabbles than anything and I'll be posting those in a couple of days, so keep an eye out.
Also, bonus points if you can tell me what this girl's nicknames are in this chapter, and you're OC will have the opening chapter on my oneshots series.
Onto the story!


Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson or any recognizable characters.
Warnings: Disturbing imagery, bad guy being creepy.


Oh, can you tell me, can you tell me
The way that this should work
Just who's inside of me?
The monster pulling strings
I'm broken, lying
Helpless, dying
Surrounded by the world
You stare and laugh with me
When you don't see a thing
-Unravel, Unknown Songbird


Thin, spidery fingers carded through her tangled brown hair, separating the knots with a surprising gentleness and the aid of a comb. She leaned back towards the person behind her, resting her back on their knees that radiated a pleasant warmth. Because it felt so nice, the way she was handled; the delicate touches and kind smiles making her feel like a princess that owned the world. Nearly anything she requested was retrieved with swiftness, held with delicacy, and given to her before arms wound their way around her waist in a gesture of love with a chin resting on her shoulder.

And the eyes. They were very pretty. Like the purest of jewels and the brightest of golds mixed together to create something that reminded her of the doorways that her Lord would open before they would go somewhere. All swirling colors and sparkling mysteries. Sometimes she would get envious, until the whispers would come, hushed and reverent. "No, no," they would say, wrapping her in a protective embrace that shut out the worries and cares of the outside world. "You are beautiful, Pupa. I wish I had your eyes. There is no reason to wish that you had mine. Not when yours are so lovely."

That's what she was called. Pupa or Neurospasta. And it was said with such joy and such wonder that she couldn't help but think that it meant something truly precious. Her whole body always filled with a strange fluttery feeling when she heard one of her names, and a shy smile would make her lips turn upwards in delight, eyes lighting up and crinkling at the corners in the way that made her Lord smile in that special way.

And the feeling only intensified when she noticed how they treated her compared to everyone else. Without a doubt she was a favorite; envied throughout all the ranks as the Highness's precious one. No one dared displease her, lest they face the Lord's anger.

Although, she had never once seen the Lord get angry before. Not really. Never was a smile absent from thin lips. But that was merely an oddity she had come to accept as normal and natural.

And as everyone aged around her, growing taller, gaining weight, gaining wrinkles, her Lord never changed. She was even taller, too. Her hair had grown longer, her face slimming and losing baby fat. And every day she was called beautiful by the one that never failed to make her smile harder than anyone else and laugh until she had stitches in her sides.

"That's not your name," she recalled someone saying to her once. It was hard to keep track of time by anything other than appearance.

"What?" she had asked back, confused. She had never spoken to this boy before. Remembering, she had seen him milling about, sometimes working, sometimes not. He had been here as long as she could remember, growing and changing. Once she could recall when he was to her shoulder. He now towered over her, switching their positions to where she came to his shoulder when they were both standing at full height. A white stick always in hand or placed in his mouth, smoke curling off of the end and disappearing into the air. The smell of smoke always clung to his skin and clothes, and now, as she stood in front of him, it was stronger than she had previously thought it was.

"Neurospasta. Or the other name our Lord calls you. That's not your name."

Her nose wrinkled in distaste. This boy had stopped her on the way to their precious Lord just to tell her something false?

"Pupa," she corrected sourly. "Of course it is my name," she continued, ask if talking to a slow child. "What else would it be?"

The one with dark hair shrugged his shoulders, pulling out and lighting the thing he called a cigarette. The flame flickered against the edge."I can't remember. It started with a J, though. I only heard it once, when the Lord was ranting about you. 'She has such pretty eyes,' I think is was." He put the white stick with the burning end in his mouth, taking a long drag, while putting the lighting box in his pocket.

"How did you know that it was me the Lord was talking about?" she asked, genuinely curious and more than a little skeptical. A burst of envy ran through her blood at the thought of the Lord calling anyone else's eyes pretty. That's what she was known for. Everyone knew that. Then again, if what the boy with the smoking stick was implying was that it was her because the Lord mentioned pretty eyes, it was doubtful. Such a flimsy statement for a matter so important.

He breathed the smoke out, and she watched with mild fascination as it dispersed above his face in waving transparent snakes, but wrinkled her nose at the harsh smell. One of the boy's hands was tucked into his pocket as he leaned against the wall, not a care in the world.

"Because you had just arrived."

That short conversation had stuck with her for hours, and she later brought it up to the one that had saved her. From what-she didn't remember. They just did. It was something she was as sure of as the floor was white and the bed was green. Or how the things outside of the walls of her home with the Lord didn't matter. It just was.

"Someone told me my name wasn't Neurospasta," she said abruptly, the words falling off her tongue before she could catch them.

The fingers untangling her locks paused, and she rushed to explain herself to her best friend.

"It was a boy - I know he was lying - but I wanted to know -" she paused, swallowing thickly. Unease pricked at her sides, making the bad kind of fluttery feeling come alive inside her. She had experienced this before, but it was a rarity nowadays. When she had seen everything when she had first woken up, everything was so strange and so frightening. The Lord was too, at first. Until she recognized that Lord was associated with all good things, like safe, home, love, warm, kind, gentle. So why was she so nervous now? Was it because she was doubting him? She had never doubted the Lord before.

After a pause, she heard the Lord finish her question in a silky tone, "If he was right?"

"It's silly - I'm sorry - I just - um, is it?" She twisted her fingers in her lap, capturing her bottom lip between her teeth while she waited for the answer. Her heart thrummed in her chest, her pulse ringing in her ears.

"Of course not," her savior purred, once again attending to her hair. Her eyes closed in bliss and her heart rate immediately calmed as the Lord began to plait her hair, tugging gently on the locks, and she allowed her shoulders to relax. It was silly to be nervous. It was just a question, after all. The Lord always encouraged curiosity.

"Why would he say something like that?" she piped up after a few moments, curious. Her eyes cracked open and she stared at the wall in front of her, eyes tracing the golden designs that spiraled up towards the ceiling.

There was a pause of silence once again, and she felt the Lord's chin rest on her shoulder, tucking a cold nose into her neck, and breathe in deeply. She distinctly felt the Lord's lips tug into the wide smile she had come to know as playful before abruptly pulling away. Pleasant goosebumps erupted over her skin.

The Lord hummed, carefully twisting her hair around a long finger. "People are silly sometimes. He made a mistake, that's all."

And she eventually lay her head on the Lord's lap, hair braided and content, falling asleep to the sound of singing and the feeling of soft fingers gently tracing her face, falling to the comfort of familiarity. Dreams of teenagers and children in armor with horses that had wings danced beneath her eyelids, calling her "Ja-" before their voices faded to white noise, forever to be lost within the sea of forgotten memories. But, try as she might, she would never forget the mysterious name that started with a J.

She didn't see the boy with the cigarettes again after that.


"Hello?" Lips trembled as tears ran down flushed cheeks, eyes wide and searching for a light that would not be found. "Is anyone there?"

Silence greeted the question.

Choking on a sob, she sat down, curling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs for security. With her face pressed against her knees, she could almost pretend that it was all a bad dream. Sobs continued to pour from her mouth, soaking her knees in tears and snot. Her eyes ached from how hard her sockets pressed against her bony knee caps.

There was nothing to see. She couldn't tell if she was in a cave, a room, or a prison. Her hand couldn't even be seen when held in front of her face. How long had she been here now? Hours? Days? The impossibility of being able to grasp anything was tearing her apart and driving her insane. How many times had she asked for someone to answer her calls only to get no response? How long had it been since she had seen color? Where had she last seen color? What had happened? She didn't even have room to feel ashamed for acting so weak. Something nagged in her mind that this was wrong and dangerous. She had to get away. But there was really nowhere to go to.

She jumped as a freezing hand pressed against her shoulder, head shooting up to blindly, instinctively search out who had touched her, but a cold hand pressed over her eyes; it keeping her head from turning and from turning and her eyes from seeing - if there were light.

The whispered words came next, raising the hairs on her body in alarm and making her open her mouth to yell in fright. Cool breath ghosted along the back of her neck, chilling her to the bone.

"Hush, little one. There's no need to be sad. It's time for a game."


Coincidence was really a funny thing. It could change an entire series of events, switching sides and turning tables in the blink of an eye. That girl that you decided to stand up for in ninth grade - even though you had never been a particularly outgoing person - she became your wife seven years later. That time you decided to switch the seven on your lottery ticket instead of a three and won the thousands of dollars as the prize, coincidentally getting in the paper and meeting someone that recognized your face, decided to talk to you, and became a true friend to you, long after you both would forget your own names. The time you felt like you shouldn't do something, but did it anyway, and ended up getting hurt and feeling regretful. The time you sent a text to a friend, just moments before they were about to pick up the razor in their bathroom. And in second grade, when you shared your crayon with the less popular kid and they ended up having a crush on you for the next four years. In reality, big or small, life was made up of a series of coincidences that should not have happened but did anyway. Small incidents, put together, a hodgepodge of little emotions and actions that make up life. The surprises that came from nowhere and turned life on its head, or made you smile. It was an interesting thing, really. The Fates did love to influence lives.

So it came as little surprise when, as the teenager fast-walked down the streets, she hadn't been able to get a ride. The cold air brushed along her skin, raising goosebumps along tanned arms and making teeth chatter as it snaked along, carried and amplified by the gentle breeze that twisted through streets and alleyways. Her chestnut-colored hair was a greasy mess, covered in dirt, tangled, and sticking up in random directions. Something that looked like dirt was smudged along the side of her forehead. Heavy byzantium bags hung under her eyes and a small cut ran across the bridge of her nose.

The brunette tucked her hands into her pockets in a vain attempt to keep warm as she walked along the busy streets, silently mourning the loss of her jacket that was left in Arizona.

Relying on hitch-hiking and the kindness of strangers to get you from state-to-state was really not an ideal situation. More than once she had met faces of the terrifying human trafficking system, got into cars with people drunk off their asses and ended up fearing for her life as they swerved out of their lane, and people who actually tried to take her to an orphanage or a police station to get her "back" to her family. She couldn't decide which was worse. (Although she was leaning towards the human trafficking system moment in her life. Although a kidnapper with a thirst for cash was no raging cyclops, it was a rather rude awakening to the fact that humans could be monsters, too. It was so easy to forget when you lived as a demigod, usually worrying about fighting things with scales, fangs, and claws, not soft skin and friendly eyes.)

She had been gone for years now, traveling. She had seen the towering buildings of New York that always had their lights on (where no one waited for anyone and it was so easy to get lost), the desert landscapes of Utah, New Mexico, and Arizona that had air so dry it cracked her skin, the overpopulated residence of California that had lovely beaches and beautiful people (and it was almost tempting to stay near Hollywood, where she swore she saw Luke Flynn), and the general expanse of nothing in Oklahoma. Nearly every state in the U.S. had met her eyes. So it was such a relief to finally be able to get that message: Go home.

Lupa had taught every single one of her warriors well. It was almost comically easy to get back to New Rome compared to how the rest of her journey had been. It was just a matter of follow your instincts, and she was quickly on her way. There was no catch, or wandering, searching, with no idea what she was supposed to find or what it would look like or worrying if it would try to kill her once she saw it.

Already, she could see her cohort's room. Her soft bed covers, the friendly faces waiting to welcome her back home. Even after all this time, it was still home to her. She missed everyone back at camp. From hero-complex Jason to the stiff Reyna to the crazy, power-obsessed Octavian. Well, maybe not him.

Even more so, she missed her surrogate siblings, who she had gotten into trouble with more times than she could count. Josh was at the top of that list, taking the figure of the older brother with a stern hand but always willing to take the blame to get her out of trouble. She shared everything with him. From hopes to dreams to the latest gossip she had heard and even silly, funny stories that she was sure he wouldn't listen to if anyone else had been talking. There were others as well, but with time their faces and voices had faded to a mere whisper in her memory. As to never forget, she kept a picture in her pocket, posing with a dorky grin around eleven other people that were crammed into uncomfortable positions next to each other. Her arm was thrown around a girl who she remembered as Zoe, all awkward posture and an uncomfortable expression twisting her features into a grimace that was a poor attempt at smiling. Next to her was Josh, a ghost of a smile on his lips, looking as confident as ever, a mysterious twinkle in his gray-blue eyes. Narcissistic Odysseus had somehow managed to slip into the picture, practically sparkling with glee as he had his arms wrapped around a surprised-looking Peyton, who's face was in a comical expression of something caught between a terror-filled shout and laughing. Angel was caught in the background of the picture, not even noticing that a photo shoot was happening, hands stuffed into their hoodie. Jasmine was caught mid-laugh with her hair tucked behind her ear, leaning against a grinning Johnathan, who stood next to Zoe. Claudia was grinning widely, arms thrown around an Asian girl who's name had escaped her memory and a struggling Jason they had managed to grab, much to his surprise. All of them were wearing their signature purple camp t-shirts and looked so like Shazer remembered that it never failed to make her smile. The names of the others had been forgotten, but she cherished the memory of the day two weeks before she had left in her heart.

With quiet admittance to herself, she was afraid that they had all changed into people she would no longer recognize. She had been gone for years, after all. People changed a lot in a few weeks. She was a prime example of that herself.

A lump lodged in her throat when she imaged Josh without his nose tucked in a book and constantly pestering people with questions that would get them to reveal their life story, sometimes unwillingly. Zoe, without her usual awkward smile and hesitance to join into games and hair always brushed in front of her face, all deer limbs and wariness. Or the tiny Peyton, so small and fragile and hated violence turning into a confident girl that could impale an enemy without batting an eye. Perhaps the one that made her shudder the most was the thought of Odysseus, humble and with a low self-esteem. (Silently she agreed to herself that, no, Odysseus liked himself too much to change into someone so humble. Juno help her if he did.) There were the others, of course, her mind constantly conjuring up endless scenarios of what her former friends/frenemies/acquaintances could have turned into over the years.

Perhaps the fact that her friends were on her mind was the reason why she noticed.

Boxing off a section of the street was yellow crime tape, awkwardly flapping against the slight breeze that curled along the road. Brown eyes swept the area, almost missing the drying crimson that was splattered against the road. There was an obscene amount that pooled against the asphalt, bleeding in between the cracks of the various back and gray rocks and paired with the skid marks of tires. The red swirled and turned to a lighter color as it danced with the puddle of rain, curling and weaving with the help of the wind.

Police officers lined the street, silent flashing red and blue lights lighting up the air, more shocking than any action movie could ever be. The sight of the police set her on edge, making her dig her nails into her palms and bite down on her tongue to calm herself.

Rarely ever did the officers actually ever help a situation. More often than not, they got in the way or turned out to be some immortal being that wanted her bones as a trophy.

A throng of police officers stood in front of a woman with long, dark hair and a drawn face, worried wrinkles creasing her dark skin as she cradled her daughter close to her body. The girl looked to be about nine or ten years old, fuzzy hair pulled back into a pony tail and tears in her eyes as she looked up at the officer with a clipboard.

A sketch artist. One, who, once shifting just so, showed the picture he had been sketching.

The brown-haired girl froze, breath catching in her heart as terror encased her heart in its icy grasp. She couldn't move. Sounds faded from her ears as she stared at the face sketched onto the paper.

A calm expression with empty eyes, an almost-smile dancing around a small mouth, with short hair framing a young face. A face she knew.

After all, she had spent lonely days and nights for the past three years staring at that face.

A choking sound came from the back of her throat, a poor attempt at speaking.

Of course she had considered the possibility that her friends could have died before, but not like this.

Not with her being only a few hours away from when the accident happened.

Not when she was so close, almost close enough to do something.

Tears stung her eyes and the familiar sensation of her throat closing up with grief overwhelmed her.a

Two police officers coming over to her side barely registered in her mind. You shouldn't be here, this area is closed off, didn't sink in to her system. Please leave, this is a crime scene, didn't even make her do more than twitch. Only when an officer - tall, lightly muscled, with pale skin and blonde hair - grabbed her arm did she react.

"I know her," she said, her voice choked and barely louder than a whisper. Then, louder, "I know her."

Chin dimpled and lips trembling with suppressed sobs, she watched from the corner of her eye as the officers followed her gaze and spoke quickly to one another before speaking to her one again. Their words fell on deaf ears as the teenager sobbed because she had been so close. So close to saving someone so young from a terrible, cruel fate. If she had just gotten there a few hours earlier. If she hadn't stopped in that cafe, she could have saved her.

One of the officers asked for her name.

"Shazer," she spoke through numb lips, her voice too loud in her own ears.

Blood snaked through the lines in the asphalt, spreading out and, with aid of the wind, made its way down to the narrow sides of the street, where it clung to the bottom of the sidewalk and spoiled the color.


"Cards, huh?"

Clumsy fingers flipped the three around, revealing a two of diamonds, a queen of hearts, and a king of hearts.

"Weird."


Her white shirt was ruined now; blood stained the fabric. Some of it was drying, turning an ugly brown and making the material crusted and hard. The origin of the blood came from her nose, which had previously been gushing blood down her lips and chin. Now, however, it simply dripped slowly, making pathways down her skin in little rivulets that ran down her neck. Tears left salted tracks down her cheeks, meeting with the blood on her chin like a lost lover and getting entangled into a swirling mixture that dripped from her face. Bruises littered her arms and face like paint on a canvas, a real-life model of orphism. Her long, brown hair fell in a tangled mess down her back, unkempt and unrestrained. Her feet were bare, although her pants had been left on. Relief blossomed in her heart when she recalled the thoughtful expression twisting her captor's lips, belonging to a face she could not recall, as they contemplated whether or not to leave her pants on at all. Even so, holes were torn in her jeans where she had fallen earlier, the white strips from the frayed fabric dyed red from her blood and hiding the cuts that were etched into her knees as she sat on the chair.

The most terrifyingly comical thing about the whole event was that the room she was in was not some cold basement with no windows or an abandoned storage house. It was a nicely furnished room, with delicately painted golden designs that clung to the wall like vines. The carpet was the softest she had ever felt between her toes and her legs weren't even secured to the hefty, wooden chair with soft cushioning. Although, her arms were pulled taught to the sides of the chair, the chain from the cuffs sure to rub her wrists raw if she moved her hands the wrong way. So, despite the bruises, blood, and cuts, she was comfortable.

The window on the side of the room had the curtains pulled back, revealing warm, yellow sunlight that glared through the glass and gave the room a homey feel, making the girl unconsciously relax, which unnerved her all the more.

Hours had slipped by already, for when she had come here the moon had cast a thin, silvery light into the room. Against her will, her stomach grumbled unhappily, cramping her sides with the lack of food. To distract herself, she decided to inspect her toes as she had done several times already, stretching and flexing her feet as she inspected the dirt and grass stains that streaked across them. Some of her toenails were uneven, which normally wouldn't bother her, but under these circumstances it nearly drove her crazy with the urge to trim them. It was a silly, insignificant thought. Not something of importance, really, but something meant to distract her mind and pull herself out of the gloomy haze that had surrounded her mind like a slow-moving fog.

"I deeply apologize for taking so long."

The brunette jumped, her hands jerking at the metal cuffs that kept her chained to the chair and biting into her skin.

The sight that met her wide, cyan eyes was not one she had been expecting.

A friendly-looking person stood in the doorway, dressed to the nines in a suit that was the strangest colors and looked to be about her age. A bright yellow tailcoat went over top of the suit, paired with black slacks and a black vest underneath. A black ribbon was tied around their throat in a loopy, dropping bow. Crisp and clean, the white undershirt they wore had the collar standing up on one side. Their skin was exotic, an off-shade that reminded her of caramel. A smattering of freckles decorated a pair of cheeks and ran over a nose that, under different circumstances, she would have described as "completely bop-able." High cheekbones curved the face nicely, going down into a jawline most people would kill for and meeting in the middle with a chin her friend Amber would have been envious of. Cupids-bow lips were curved into a lopsided smile, completely warm and inviting. Or would have been, if not for the abnormally sharp and long canines. Long, dark eyebrows curved over shining golden eyes that were crinkled at the corners. Short hair the color of liquid gold with white-blonde streaks strategically fell over their forehead and covered part of their right eye, adding a certain charm that made butterflies tingle to life in her stomach, almost overpowering the gnawing pain of hunger. All in all, the face, along with the voice, were both rather androgynous, but beautiful.

An otherworldly aura came off of the person, making the tension between her shoulders ease instantaneously and the depressed fog clear from her mind. She grit her teeth so hard her jaw creaked, trying to fight the feeling and not give in to the urge to relax and let go of her reservations. Her mind and body battled each other, fighting to be cautious and be familiar, respectively.

The person must have stood in the doorway for a solid three seconds before snapping out of whatever trance they were in, fumbling with the cart that was behind them. The smell of waffles and bacon reached her nose, electing a howl-like noise from her stomach at the promise of food.

"I am so sorry," the person (the seventeen-year old just decided to refer to the person as a he) apologized, the tips of his ears red. "My friend actually stays a few rooms down and wanted to play and stuffed me into this outfit and I lost track of time. Aw, dad would kill me if he knew I let you starve. I'm really, really sorry."

Confusion blossomed in her mind, spreading the roots of questions she would ask later. Who was his dad? Sister? Why was he acting so normal when she had literally been kidnapped, beaten, and chained to a chair in a place she didn't recognize? Was he a prisoner too? A servant?

Awkwardly, he pulled a key from his pocket and undid her cuffs, which fell down the arms of the chair with dull clinks. Rubbing her wrists, she contemplated punching him in the face and making a break for it, but the smarting in her face, knees, and ankles reminded her why that would be a bad idea. Besides, the food was too tempting to pass up, although she was wary of it being poisoned.

As if sensing her doubts, he said, "Don't worry - everyone in this house wants you alive and well at the moment. I even made it myself."

Nothing about that statement reassured her, but she nodded anyway and picked up the fork from the tray he had wheeled over to her, cutting into the waffles and taking a hesitant bite.

"There's people that want to meet you before we do anything, Alicia."

Her head snapped up, eyes filled with nervousness and wariness at the fact that this person knew her name.

Swallowing the delicious food, she swiped her tongue around in her mouth before speaking up while the blonde-haired person rummaged around in a bag, pulling out a hairbrush and a first-aid kit.

"Who are you?"

His hands only faltered for a second before he pulled something out of the bag and turned to fully face her, holding out her flower pin that had been in her hair when she was still back at camp.

"I don't think it would be wise for me to give you my real name right now, but you can call me Leviathan." His adorable, lopsided smile revealed a dimple on the right side of his face. "It's my nickname. I'll help you get cleaned up before you go and meet everyone else, okay?"


More awkward endings. You are welcome.

Comment and stuff. I'm always up for feedback.

Next chapter will only be the Greeks, but it will be more important than the others!