It's Friiiiiidaaaaaay! Look at me keeping up with myself, haha. I realized the other day while tweaking my outline that the first half of this is a little slow, with more set-up and dialogue than anything else. All the big action chapters are in the second half. So if things start to seem dull, just remember—I promise the excitement is coming. Just hang with me.

Thanks as always, gang! Enjoy!

So we can take the world back from the heart-attacked / One maniac at a time, we will take it back

When Percy had first arrived at the underground medical facility beneath the Marten apartment complex, Olympus's east-coast division headquarters, that Friday afternoon, he'd thought for a while that he'd fallen asleep again and was dreaming. There was something strange and surreal about seeing his father in a hospital bed, unconscious and bruised and weak. As long as Percy remembered, Parker Grace had never been weak. Never been vulnerable. Never been broken. Yet there he was, defeated and still. And the looks people were giving Percy—sympathy, fear, awe—like his father was already dead. It just didn't seem real, any of it.

But the longer he stayed, the thinner his mind's membrane of denial waned. The evidence made too much sense—the casualties, the loss of equipment, the somber attitude. Kronos really had made a move—a brash and deadly move—and their unpreparedness had cost them. He didn't want to believe it, but he wasn't in a position where he could afford to play dumb. This hit was a major blow to the organization. And as a leader, he would have to deal with it. He'd spent the entirety of his morning flight from Chicago and the cab ride into Belle Harbor forcefully reminding himself of that fact.

Still, knowing that didn't make it any easier. It was one thing to understand the reasons calling for a firm hand and a steady mind. It was another thing entirely to execute them while being spoken to about third-degree burns, head trauma, internal bleeding, and the fact that you may never exchange words with your father again. Not to mention the names of eleven others who'd been killed or injured in the clash, and the measly three CIA agents they'd eliminated in return. He took the news with a stoic mask, but behind it he was shaken. Every negatively-connoted word he'd received in the past few weeks had formed some kind of pit inside him, swallowing bits of hope and security piece by piece. And this disaster caused a landslide.

Mercifully, the doctors had left Percy alone with his dad after the situation had been fully explained, and now here he sat almost two hours later, staring half-blindly at the man and finally coming to terms with the idea that he was not in fact dreaming this up. No dream was this agonizingly slow; his subconscious couldn't possibly feel each dragging second like a knife to the gut, delving a little deeper with every movement of the clock hands on the wall. No, that feeling was real—all of it was real. The steady beeping of the heart monitor, loud in its lonely echo. The heavy stillness of Parker's body, broken only by the miniscule bob of his chest as he breathed. The burn mark poking from beneath the bandage on his left arm, bisecting the black trident tattooed on his bicep as though pictorially shortening his lifespan. The soft stitch between his eyebrows, belying pain beneath the slumber. It was all real. And it was all horrifying.

An explosion, that was what they'd reported. The CIA team had used some sort of bomb against Olympus and their allies after a short ballistic clash. There'd been no way to avoid the damage. Percy almost couldn't believe Kronos had beaten them, had landed such a serious blow and walked away victorious.

No, he told himself the second that thought crossed his mind. He hasn't beaten us—not yet. This was one win. It's not the end.

Because this loss meant one thing and one thing only: the war was on. For months now, both sides had been waiting for the other to make a move. Now Kronos had struck, and the time for waiting was done. Wasting time thinking it was over—all that would do was ensure that it really was. And Percy wasn't ready for that. Not yet.

Of course, there was still the glaring question of what to do next. And completely honestly, he hadn't the slightest idea.

A little after 9:00 PM, the room's only door opened and Paul Archer stepped inside, a long, white coat over his T-shirt and jeans and a clipboard in his hand. Officially Paul—known as Apollo to some—co-headed organization combat training with his twin sister Tammy, but as he was also a genius in the field of emergency medicine, he oversaw things in the Marten's facility when he wasn't on a job. That night happened to be one such occasion.

"Hey," he greeted Percy, who was glad when the older man didn't smile. He wasn't entirely sure he could offer one in return. "Don't suppose there's been any change since I left?"

"Nothing I can see," Percy replied, his voice so thin and emotionless it was almost alien.

Paul's mouth twisted sideways as he approached Parker's bed. "I've got to prep him for surgery. It's cool if you want to stay, but…"

Percy shook his head and stood up, forcibly turning his gaze from his father's motionless form. "Nah, I think I need to get out of here. Maybe do some damage control. Everybody's probably shot down after this whole thing."

For a second Paul's eyebrows angled and he paused with his mouth open, a sheen of contrition glassing his eyes. But then he blinked and looked down, expression slipping back to one of calm professionalism. "Alright," he said. "I'll let you know how it goes."

"You think… he'll be okay?" Percy asked before he could stop himself, feeling a chill attempt to crack his voice.

Again Paul hesitated. When he replied, his tone was melancholy. "I really don't know. I'm sorry, Percy."

"Don't be," Percy told him soberly, having expected a similar sort of answer. "Just do what you can." Paul nodded in assurance.

Percy's steps were heavy as he left the room and headed down the hall, no clear destination immediately in mind. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat, trying to empty his head of all the thoughts inside fighting for dominance. He didn't want to focus on them. Not all together. If he did, he had a feeling their jarring multitude would come very close to tearing his psyche apart. And that was something he couldn't afford right now. He had to stay strong. For the organization.

"Percy, hey," a voice interrupted. Percy jolted to a halt and looked up to see a set of open double doors to his right leading into a lounge, and his best friend Grover rising from a cushioned chair inside.

"Hi," Percy replied, feeling himself relax just a little at seeing a friendly face and actually managing a smile. He stepped into the lounge as Grover approached and wordlessly pulled him into a tight hug.

"How're you holding up?" Grover asked when they separated. He crossed his arms and studied Percy's face with clear concern in his eyes.

Percy lifted a shoulder. "How do you think?" The touch of disdain in his tone was unintentional—maybe after forcing back the majority of his emotions, that was all he had left. Grover flinched just barely in response and Percy shook his head and backtracked, "Sorry, I just… I'm not totally 'in control' right now."

Grover cocked his head with an inquisitive frown and opened his mouth, but, not wanting to discuss it further, Percy cut him off, "Does my uncle know what happened?"

Grover released his breath in a sigh and nodded solemnly. "Called him right after I called you. He's flying in tomorrow. Won't be able to stay long, though—apparently there's some big show at the club next weekend and he's got a bunch of re-scheduling to take care of."

"Right." Percy ran a hand through his hair and took a few aimless steps sideways as Grover dropped back into the seat he'd recently vacated.

"You should sit down," Grover suggested. "You look exhausted."

"I've been sitting for hours," Percy replied, shaking his head and staring at the carpet. "That's all I do anymore, is sit. Sit and worry and try to work out things I have next to no chance getting a handle on. I just need…" He trailed off and closed his eyes for a second, noticing his heartbeat gain momentum and trying to calm it down. What did he need, exactly?

"Hey… What's wrong?" Grover asked quietly, a soft note of worry in his voice. It faded somewhat when he muttered, "Ouch—stupid question…"

"Everything's wrong," Percy blurted out, waving his arms weakly as he turned to face his friend. He still didn't want to dwell on what was bothering him, but for whatever reason he couldn't stop his mouth from putting the words out there, like he was under some kind of spell. Maybe some part of him was just tired of suffering alone. "I thought I could handle this, you know? I know the organization. I know how it works. How hard could it be? But how stupid was that? Thinking I could just… disappear for a while and then come back and everything would be the same. Because it's not. And that's mostly my fault."

"Your fault?" Grover repeated, eyes narrowing inquisitively. "Of course this isn't your fault."

"Well, maybe this isn't," Percy admitted, waving a hand toward the empty doorway in a vague indication of the defeat that had brought him back to New York. His head was starting to ache, a slow, pulsing pain hammering at the backs of his eyes. Pressing his palm to his forehead, he explained, "But after what we did, I'm starting to feel like… like this is some kind of karmic retribution. Like I just want to make things right but some god up there's like 'Hey, screw you! Serves you right for helping kill your own family!'"

Grover's eyes widened a stitch in comprehension and he opened his mouth, but he must not have decided exactly what to say because no sound was forthcoming.

Percy took a step backward and looked down, not wanting to meet his friend's worried gaze. It only made him feel worse—he was supposed to be a leader. The strong one. The sure one. The one who made others feel better, not the one who made them afraid. Another failure to add to the list.

"I'm trying here," he said, feeling a need to explain himself. But the brittle strain in his voice made it sound like an excuse—a plea, even. And somehow it made him sick. His stomach turned and his chest tightened, cold adrenaline sparking his nerves like live wires. What was wrong with him? Why was he losing it like this? "But it's all a mess," he went on. "Zeke's guys hate me and I can't get a handle on the central division, which is basically my whole job right now—and there's Kronos and the CIA to worry about, because it's not like they're gonna step aside for a while and give me a break to work things out. No, they had to hit us with this—exactly what I need at the moment."

He turned sideways and stared helplessly down at his hands, which were starting to shake. A hysterical sort of laugh escaped his throat for some reason at the sight—at the irony that even the tiny bit of control he'd thought he'd had was just gone. He was suddenly out of breath, but that didn't stop the jumble of words from cascading out of his mouth as he paced the floor restlessly.

"Now my dad could be dying and I've got an internal uprising to watch out for and the CIA could attack again at any minute and I kind of wish Annabeth was here but I haven't heard from her in days so I don't even know if she's alive and is this what a panic attack looks like? Because—I'm pretty sure I'm having a panic attack."

Grover jumped to his feet with an exclamation of "Whoa, Perce, whoa! Look, first of all, sit down." He grabbed Percy by the shoulders and shoved him into the nearest seat. This time Percy didn't protest—he was too busy trying to hear around the roaring in his hears.

"Okay, uh…" Grover muttered, looking anxious. "You've got to calm down. Try holding your breath."

Percy shook his head and stammered, "I-I can't." He was breathing so quickly his lungs hurt and his pounding heart felt like it was about to burst through his chest. It was as though all the anxiety he'd built up since leaving London two months ago had broken free and was pressing in on him from all sides, suffocating him as he tried in vain to shake it off. This was exactly what he'd been afraid of—that if he let them, all of his grievances would explode at once and he'd lose the last tiny hold he had on certainty and reality. He hadn't let himself realize it before, but everything was wrong—everything. How the hell was he supposed to fix it?

Grover was still gripping his shoulders tightly and looked to be saying something, but his voice was now a mess of incoherent sounds in Percy's ears. His vision wouldn't focus completely—enough to see his surroundings but not quite enough to make out his friend's expression. He thought he heard the word 'sorry' somewhere in Grover's speech, before the guy did something highly uncharacteristic and threw a fist at Percy's jaw. Hard.

Surprisingly, it actually helped. The sharp sting of pain cut through Percy's mind like a bolt of lightning, monopolizing his focus for an instant long enough to blur everything else. A few seconds of closing his eyes brought clarity to his vision. His heart continued to slam against his ribcage, but he was breathing slower and more rhythmically, if still a bit heavily. He clenched his hands into fists, successfully stopping them from quavering.

"…Percy?" Grover said tentatively from somewhere to Percy's right. He realized he was now leaning sideways over the arm of his chair as Grover asked, "You alright?"

Percy turned to face him and gave a weak smirk, eyelids heavy with exhaustion. "Since when do you hit so hard?" he countered wryly.

The urgent expression on Grover's face melted in relief and he responded with a nervous sort of chuckle. "Sorry," he said again. "I couldn't think of anything else to do. I wasn't expecting you to…"

"Have a mental breakdown?" Percy suggested breathlessly with a mirthless half-smile.

Grover didn't smile back. His eyebrows drew together as he stood from his crouch and sat down in the chair to Percy's immediate left. "This is serious, man," he said solemnly.

Percy leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees, frowning at the floor. "You think I don't know that?"

"No, I know you do," Grover explained. "Especially now, after… I mean I didn't know it. None of us did."

"If you're saying I should've asked for help…"

"I'm saying you shouldn't have needed to," Grover interrupted, a remorseful edge heightening his tone. "…I should've been there for you this whole time. I'm sorry."

Percy lifted his head but couldn't bring himself to look at Grover. He wanted to argue with him—tell him he had no reason to be sorry. But for whatever purpose the words wouldn't come. Maybe he'd talked himself out.

"You're not alone here," Grover went on when he didn't respond. "I know it sounds lame and cliché and all, but… it's the truth. I didn't realize how messed up everything was right now. But you shouldn't have to sort it all out on your own. Not that I don't think you could…"

Percy scoffed derisively. "I think it's pretty clear I can't."

"Come on," Grover argued, a tiny hint of humor entering his voice. "You and me have been friends for a while, right?"

Percy glanced sideways and raised an eyebrow at him. "We're not checking for a concussion, here," he pointed out jokingly.

Grover gave a small smile. "I just mean… I know you pretty darn well. You're a natural leader—always have been. You belong where you are."

"Maybe," Percy said noncommittally.

"Let's just work this out one problem at a time," Grover suggested, leaning backward in his seat. "Then you'll see what I mean. Now, uh… I know it was a crazy couple minutes there, but I'm pretty sure I heard the words 'internal uprising' somewhere in your spiel? What's that about?"

Percy cringed at the topic change. He hadn't planned on spreading that information around just yet, but Grover was right—in his state of mental vulnerability he'd let it slip. No taking it back now.

"Brunner stopped by my place yesterday to warn me," he explained. "Apparently, United's acting CEO—some guy named Jason Sharpe—is planning to stake a claim for central head. A bunch of Zeke's old loyals are saying he picked the guy personally—which, if he did, he sure didn't let my dad or Harley in on it. They've been under the impression he never appointed another heir after Thalia."

Grover's brow creased in unease. "Think he's got enough support to go against you?"

"I don't know. Brunner seemed to think they weren't quite there yet, but when they are, I doubt they'll be sending us a friendly memo. I just hope they hold off until the CIA's off our backs. I don't want to have to worry about getting my feet knocked out from under me while I try to fight Kronos."

"Maybe it'd be best to deal with this first," Grover pointed out, causing Percy to look over at him with a bemused frown. "Well, think about it—wouldn't it be easier to withstand whatever Kronos throws at us if we aren't expecting attacks from both sides? Besides, there's nothing you can do for your dad right now, so it's no use beating yourself up there. And an immediate counterattack on Kronos would be suicide, you know that as well as I do. But this, we might be able to do something about. Why don't you get in touch with this Jason Sharpe and see if he'll meet with you? If we're lucky, you two can work something out—at least until this war with the CIA is over."

"Assuming we're all still around when it is," Percy said wryly.

"True," Grover agreed. "If not, then hey—you'll be dead and you won't have to worry about it anyway."

Percy shook his head with a depreciative laugh. "Alright, you got a point. I'll call Sharpe and hear him out. Maybe we can make some kind of deal."

"Optimism, good." Grover nodded. "Go with that. Oh, and hey, about Annabeth—Reyna called in a few hours ago, said they're following up on a lead in Vegas. I was gonna let you know soon as I ran into you, but, well… Distractions."

Percy sat up straight, something inside him seeming to inflate as a greater measure of his anxiety was cut. "Really?"

"Yeah. So assuming that went well, they're doing okay out there."

"Good," Percy sighed in relief. With everything else going on, he'd barely even realized how worried he was deep down about Annabeth. He knew it was stupid for him to expect her to call every day, especially considering how dangerous her mission was. But he couldn't deny the fact that every hour he didn't hear from her caused him to suspect the worst more and more. It was probably just another product of his over-worked nerves. Hopefully she'd be back soon; having her around was an effective stress-reliever in and of itself.

"I should really get back home," Grover said, climbing from his seat and stretching his arms over his head. "Juniper's gonna be waiting up for an update. You need a place to crash while you're here?"

Percy shook his head. "I'm just gonna stay here, up in my dad's suite. Thanks, though." He let his expression grow serious as he glanced up at Grover, hoping his friend caught that he was grateful for more than just the offer of a temporary home. "And sorry for… you know, losing it on you."

Grover smiled. "Don't worry about it. We're friends. It's my job to…"

"Punch me in the face?" Percy supplied, rotating his still-sore jaw.

With a chuckle, Grover agreed, "When you need it, yeah. Just don't go stacking up the stress on your own anymore, okay? Remember: one thing at a time." He grinned and waved goodbye as he strode out of the lounge and disappeared down the dark hallway outside.

Now alone, Percy leaned back in his chair and released his breath in a slow sigh. The anxiety attack he'd just fallen victim to was something of a wake-up call. He'd been going about this whole leadership thing the wrong way, thinking that every problem was his to solve as swiftly and concisely as possible. But Grover was right—a lot of the organization's problems couldn't be solved at the moment. There was nothing good to be had from dwelling on the big picture and how messed up it was. Kronos, Atlas, his father, Annabeth, the uprising—if he just took things steady and focused on what he could fix, he'd be able to keep his head.

"One thing at a time," he repeated to himself, deciding that as long as he made it his mantra for the time being, then maybe—just maybe—he could bring the organization through this after all.

At the very least, it was something worth hoping for. And with the chasm of doubt eating away at the dregs of positive emotion Percy had left inside, he'd take any small amount of hope he could get.

Maybe someday I'll write something happy. We'll see.

Leave a review on your way out, maybe? We're back with Annabeth next chapter, and hopefully next week. Later days!

-oMM