Part II: Criminally Good
Chapter IX: The Penalty of Life is the Penalty of Life

I stare at the rain through the fiberglass window, it pours like a premonition to the fate of the gods. Or maybe it's my fate, much more predictable now that death touches out to me like a corrupt claw. They have a knife and several metal instruments that are not the musical type. They look extremely pointy and murderous.

Murica walks in first, his hand lightly touches my shoulders before the doctor in the lab coat takes a sample of my blood. My blood's not golden ichor like that of an immortal, instead it's the color of an electric shock. I think it scares both of them — they've never held the blood of the hallow.

My restraints are simply iron cuffs this time. They aren't moldable so I don't even attempt to break them.

"Please..." I croak from the lack of water, "This is America, where is your sense of righteousness? No cruel or unusual punishments..." I don't even try to lie to myself: I'm scared.

"That flew out the window the second you attacked all of us," Murica smarts. "That's why you're being tortured, not drugged," he adds.

Only idiots don't fear being tortured. I'm not afraid of dying or death, because I'm immune to it like a sickness — a mutt. They'll never kill me... They can't.

But maybe that's why I throw myself into danger and laugh it off. Because I can't.

But I can be tortured.

And I'm afraid. Afraid that my dreams might come true, that my recollections will occur again. That old scars will suddenly begin to pour out blood one more.

I won't even fight my captors, but I won't tell them anything either. I'd rather die than help Shield or a gang. Even though I can't, the gesture's still there.

That might seem the antithesis of hallow-ness, but any imbalance in power could be catastrophic, especially if the Fate tells what should never be told. If suddenly they know that my price has already been paid in the blood of others.

I clench my fists uncomfortably, angry that I gave him something to hold over me — something to to bend me.

Then I square my shoulders, I am not afraid. I am not angry.

I just... am.

I am. I am. I am.

"Who is the founder of Vulg?"

But... I'm not.

I remain silent, an focus on my breathing patterns. In, in, out, in, out, in... He waits for a few seconds before threatening me with his first item.

I slow my metabolism so when the doctor presses a silver cylinder into the inside of my left wrist I barely feel it. I probe my muscles and transmit the thought into them to try and quickly mend the severed tendons.

They barely respond, the pulse is weak but I pour all my reserves into building. Nucleus by nucleus, cell by cell, tissue by tissue.

I stare down at my arm, watching as blood bubbles like a fountain. Then I stare at the doctor, What did I do to you?

He almost seems pyretic and feverish, happy in a way. I scowl, how can you be happy intentionally mauling someone? In the heat of battle that's one thing, for information I'm not even privy to is another.

Then I look at his bandages, understand the three symmetric holes in his head and know. An eye for an eyes... As they say.

That doesn't make it any better.

I release the bunched up muscles in my non-pressed-with-a-cylinder-metal-sharp-object and let out a shaky breath. I stare up at Pickle, "I'm sorry," I whisper.

He doesn't meet my eyes.

This time it's Widow who asks, so quiet I didn't notice her come in. "Why did you join Rust?"

This I can answer. Not because I inherently feel like I have to; but because there's just this secret compulsion in my head. It urges me on like a horse.

I want to. I realize with a shock.

I want them to know my experiences, my pain — but no! Also my triumphs and my battles won, my waging wars.

It's that feeling you don't want to feel, yet you do anyway. You can give in, or not. It feels shameful — underhand. I know that I fear not death, yet I do fear answering this question.

But I fear leaving it unspoken more.

I stare at Widow, right in the eyes, "My mother." I say, each syllable drops from my tongue like ice cold hate. My eyes shine with triumph and I almost feel pride coursing through me.

To an untrained eye, she looks as stoic as a statue, but to my eye I see a million thoughts run through her head. All with the blink of her eye. His mother? What... What kind of mother... Did she force him or is she in the gang?

"Be more specific," she says, twirling a dirk in her hand.

"My mother married a man named Paul..." I start, immersed in my own memories.

I looked at my mother as she showed me a sneak peak of her wedding dress. It was creamy white with longs sleeves and a modest v-neck. Little lace embroidered sections hung down over the main part of the skirt and made the cuffs of the sleeves. She wore a startling sea green sash over her left shoulder and under her right.

My eyes traitorously began to burn, "Mom... You're stunning..."

She looked sideways at me and smiled, "I know."

"Should I wear the green tie that matches your sash, or the gold Paul has us wearing?" I asked her. "I personally like the green..." I turned around when she didn't answer me.

My mother had frozen, and she stared at me for a moment. "Percy...I-I don't know how to tell you this — let alone ask you."

"What?" I snapped, feeling tension radiate off me in punctual waves.

She flinched, and then I flinched, "Paul wants me to ask you... not to come to the wedding..."

My mouth pressed into a thin line like I was unhappy, but I wasn't — I was livid. "Why?" I ask dangerously, all ready knowing the answer.

Her upper lip quivered, "At the practice... There were monsters surrounding the place in seconds — you brought them there. You put lives in danger, Percy. I saw them, when you went to the bathroom there were dozens. So many you couldn't even fight off... Those people are my friends, Paul's friends, they cannot die!"

I clenched me jaw, "Annabeth will be there, and Nico, Grover, Jason, and all the others. We can take on the puny monsters," I growl.

"Be realistic, Percy — this isn't a game anymore. You're seventeen almost eighteen. This is the point where so many demigods die for being reckless. Do you know any adult demigods besides Rome? No! They all died because suddenly the monsters didn't just want to kill them — suddenly the monsters had to kill them."

I narrow my eyes, I believe her, every word. But I don't believe she'd ever tell not to come to her wedding. I don't believe that her fidgeting fingers are nervous because of me, but something or someone else.

It starts to drizzle outside and I glare upwards at Zeus. He's either an idiot or has a bad sense of irony. It's probably the former, my uncle and I have been on bad terms since Athena swore me her mortal enemy.

I look back at my mother, "I do not believe in false confidence — or false modesty — when I say I can kill them, I know I can." I lean back and look at her, just now noticing the lines under her eyes. "Paul is not the boss of me, and you for the matter, when he tells you things... you don't have to do what he says," my voice cracks, "Please... Let me come... This means almost as much to me as it does to you..."

Her eyes harden, "The monsters are changing... The Mist is evaporating in ways I don't understand — but it's there. Humans won't stop them, and Perseus Jackson cannot save everyone in the world."

I look away, shamefaced, "You're choosing them over me."

"It's not a choice, it's a law written in the fabric of time."

"Who are you! Kronos!?" I roar.

"You cannot come to the wedding!"

Something in her expression stops me, perhaps it's the fear maybe it's the anger. I search her eyes, "Fine, I won't go," I tell her.

"I didn't go to the wedding," I say, "And then Vulg blew up the building through cooperation with Rust."

"Vulg killed the last of my family, and Rust helped... But I can't take on a gang alone, I did some recon with other gangs, and then eventually joined Rust to destroy Vulg and Rust through the inside. So I could destroy everyone who took part in my mother's death."

I look at Widow, "And that includes Shield."