Part II: Criminally Good

Chapter VIII: Death is Release From Nothing

He was locked inside a room. It wasn't a big room, but it was bigger thanhis old room as a child when his mother was there to comfort the little child Percy Jackson.

The window was big enough for him to squeeze out of, but it had iron bars over it. That wasn't something that could deter Percy Jackson, but after a moment of consciousness he realized that the mechanical whirl of his spinning blades was gone.

They had finally been able to disable him. He checked his internal timer, it had only taken... Three days, sixteen hours, thirteen minutes and seventeen seconds.

They appeared to be excellent mechanics.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed as stood up. He stretched like a cat, and yawned.

His mind flickered to breaking out.

Then he noticed a strawberry smoothie siting on the bedside table. He grabbed it, tossed it from hand to hand as he made his decision, and then jumped back in bed. With sleepy, cunning eyes he decided to stay for a little while longer.

Strawberry was the best flavor, much better than blueberry, after all.

Cannon in D is playing when I open my eyes, proving to anyone who questions it that I have a wonderful taste of wedding music. Not that I've ever been to a wedding (My mom and Paul's was strictly non-demigod) and my own was canceled a week before it happened.

I throw on a orange and red plaid button up, khaki pants, and some bright red converse. I add a blue tie on for kicks and retribution, as well as actually comb through my hair. If you're wondering where I got these clothes from, I actually weaved then from the bedspread.

Not really — weaving's for Demeter's spawns. I got them from the closet, which to my delight, had nothing else in it.

I look at my profile in the body mirror they'd put in the room as if I was a female teenager.

I could say many things about my appearance; that I'm scared by the crazy gleam in my eyes, that every flash of my pupils gives off a aura of insanity... But I'm not bothered by it — any of it.

It's who I am.

I also happen to be incredibly hot.

A rapping on the door startles me, followed by the groan of a door that sounds like my (many greats) grandmother trying to do a backflip...

Gaia... Plz no!

...you'll hurt yourself...

The man that steps in looks haggard, he has a fancy bow strapped to his back and a quiver full of arrows. His eyes carry a certain amount of serenity, of foreknowledge. The assessment of the man leads me to his fingers, which twitch as if paranoid.

"Hello!" I say in a chipper voice when the man gets over his surprise. He stares at me like one would stare at a panda, surprised that I could possibly look like a normal person.

"Hey," he nods.

"So what's your name, you weren't one of the guys I fought, so I didn't get to give you a name." I say, studying my fingernails, before looking up at him, completely serious.

He tenses, and then relaxes, he offers his hand, "Clint."

I shake his hand, running my fingertips over his heavy callouses. This is the master archer they were missing earlier!

I stare at him sideways, noting the dark rings around his eyes used for cutting the glare of the sun. "I'll call you hawkeyes..." I decide.

He stumbles as if shocked.

"So what brings you to my humble abode?" I say, and widen my eyes. If I really try, I can look like an innocent teenager again. Maybe the godly blood helps, I haven't aged well since fourteen. My eyes (hopefully) resemble those of a an innocent child, the green just accentuates my completely mild personality.

"I uh... I'm here to bring you to the conference room..." He says, as if he's lacking confidence.

Widening my eyes even more, I say, "O-okay," stuttering.

He then narrows his eyes and studies me with slits. Coming to both an inconveniently and a perfidious conclusion, as fast as a spark he snaps my arms back and ties them with a string. This time I widen my eyes out of amusement, a string, really? Does he think I'm an elephant?

I can feel the braided cotton fibers that make the string up. It feels like a typical four year old craft project.

So obviously it can't be a regular string.

Or maybe I actually am an elephant.

Mooooo...

I flex my fingers, and then stumble forward as it both tightens and winds itself around around all my fingers and inches up my arm. It also thickens two centimeters.

I see Clint watching me in amusement. I roll my shoulders uncomfortably.

He takes my "shackled" arms and leads me forward. We go through many doors and twist and turns, but I still remember the path, just in case.

I roll my eyes, doofus, forgot to blindfold me.

"You realize that ninety-nine percent of people resist and fight being handcuffed, correct? And that I, being so nice, am resisting the urge to tear them off?" I look back at him while trying to skip down the hallway, "I believe in Shield's emergency procedures, it says I deserve a free cookie." I think for a second, "But I would take a strawberry smoothie instead, if that's easier."

He snorts, "Would you like fries with that order?"

"Only if their Chick-Fila," I wink at him, stumbling as the ropes tighten even more.

By the time we're at the "Room" (as marked above the doorway) the small ropes have thickened by another six inches and have begun to wrap around my neck. My breathing is labored and my heart rate has increased rapidly, I can now feel steel hidden beneath the string covering.

I stumble into the room. I stand as straight as I can and look down at my shoes, hopefully abashed. Through the corner of my eyes I see Ferrari, Patriotic, Widow, and another dude with a lab coat on and heavy bandages around his head. Where's Pickle?

"Percy Jackson." The familiar voice says.

I look up in a flash, all humility gone, "Hello Fury."

I lean back, staying on the balls of my feet. Fighting position.

"Do you know why you're here?" Fury casts a quizzical eyes on my, an shuffles some papers. The Avengers around him look at each other.

I take in a big breath of air, "By the position of your shoes, a decahedron, and the number of eyebrow hairs you have, I can come to many different conclusions. Possible you are wanting a person to bake you homemade muffins, or maybe you want me to help you make a wicker basket. Unfortunately for you, I have reason to believe that you're looking for Rust's assassin, in which you have made an extremely erroneous conclusion. This place was formerly filled by a man named Laquen Low who was a bully and an incredible killer born on February 16 1980 in Lukesville Vermont of the United States of America also known as the US or Murica or just America or the Land of the Free or the Police or the world of debt." I take a breath, "Debts are bad, they lead to more debt and the loosing of land and property and belongings but that's good for the people who run the bank because they need more money to support their family just like I need to support my family (cat) and buy food (cat food) for them so they can become —"

Fury slams his hands on the table.

I glare at him, "That was rude!"

Fury looks insistent, "Scan Laquen Low," he mutters to a subordinate, then he turns his eyes (correction: eye) on me and says, "Perseus Jackson, while your description of the USA is fairly accurate, your belief in Shield is not."

I glare at him harder, to which he smiles with pointy teeth.

"Shield helps people, For the greater good!" I say indignantly, "The greater good is where 51% of people get to boss around the other 49," I end with a snarl.

"You are entitled to your own belief," Fury condones, "but the monsters of the world; violence, malnutrition, terrorist, and isolation are what we fight against.

"Shield is a monster!" I yell, my pupils dilating with rage as I completely go insane. One word sticks in my mind — isolation. It's like a trigger, like a poison, suddenly I can barely think of anything else except the all encompassing isolation.

I shake my head savagely, "Rust is a monster, Vulg is a monster! You're all monsters! Who cares what side you're on, as far as I'm concerned you both kill!"

Then it strikes me right to the heart — "I kill..." I look up, meet their stares, "Nobody's good — nobody's good enough," I end with a dramatic whisper.

Then I laugh cryptically, "You'd think that Rust would treat their members better then their enemies — but of course not... Don't finish your mission you die, get captured and die. I have," I check my timer, "ten hours."

For all the people who have now begun to believe I'm having a mental anxiety attack, I'm not. Just to make things clear, I haven't told them anything of importance. They already know what gang I'm in — and that's it.

Accusation and hysteria are wonderful miracles to get out of a tricky situation.

At least that's what I keep telling myself.

I look at a brick in the wall, stare at it, hoping that with all my essence that it will crack into a million pieces and I can escape from this desolate prison.

"Ten hours," Fury tosses the word around, "Well, I wouldn't want to deprive them of a traitor."

My eyes widen, "No! You can't! Fury —"

He flicks his wrist, "I want to know everything that he knows in seven hours. For incentive I'll sign off for any methods imaginable. Then throw him in a Caryier Truck and drive him out into the country. I want no witnesses, got it?"

A collective nod goes around.

Darn. And I was doing so well.