II

I've always respected those sanitation workers in white—you can tell how much they've seen by how red their uniforms look. Wash all you want, blood always sticks around no matter how long it's been, one way or another. Too bad their pay isn't much.

Several fine boys of the New York Police Department answered the call to keep the peace, or what was left of it. Several fine boys never clocked out.

As for me, I could give excuses all day long. Past the point, I'm glad it was those boys and not me who answered the call first. I got there as the last bullet was fired.

In total, 30 people were dead or bleeding to death. A measly five folks survived the ordeal with non-fatal injuries. What you won't find in the official report is the number of escapees.

At least two people ran the rails to another station, a few booked it through the entrance when we arrived, and cars flew off the pavement when the cavalry made an appearance.

America just won a war, hell, I've been to France. If there's one thing I didn't see of that soil it was concrete washed in blood. That acidic odor of rust permeated the stuffy, rotting halls, with fresh blood spilling over the pitted platform, coating the rails in a layer of liquid oxidizer.

Of course, every blood-stained mural, whether the wall or floor, had accompanying chips in the concrete, no doubt from the mass use of firearms. Leftover brass casings were warm, like the blood they helped spill. Many were crushed alongside sticky footprints. Fragments of lead were sprinkled everywhere, some managed to ricochet their way outside.

It is without question that the bullet is the fastest way to kill. Bodies of the dead and dying say otherwise. Still, the morgues of New York had 30 more jobs to do. Shame the little candy store might not get as many jobs.

Doors locked. Windows shuttered. A chair barricades the entrance. Lights out. Kitchen knives sharpened. Gag stuffed in mouth. Couch Fort at the ready.

Percy was a little apprehensive with concern and a dash of distraught. Here's the watered-down explanation:

Percy was present during a gunfight between two notorious mafias. Percy was seen assisting one of them. Percy fled the subway with, according to witnesses, the so-called instigator of the breakout.

Percy is now a fugitive.

"MMMMMMM!"

"Quiet!" Percy hissed at his personal tied-up gangster, "I'm sure youse hate to waste at Riker's!"

"MMMM MM MMM MMM MM MMMM MMM MMMMM!"

"Can't hear you Thunder Thighs. Please hang up and dial again." Thalia's struggle intensified.

The bonds that kept his captive caged should do the trick, though Percy may have doubted his subject's strength. Rage fueled her actions, and apparently her will to bust out, bludgeon, and beat it back to Hunter HQ.

Perhaps he could sate her by removing the wound gag?

"I WILL FUCKING KI—"

"Nope, too loud," Percy judged, stuffing the violent victim's mouth.

Now he had a slight problem. Just like detective stories, Percy had a few questions to ask. He could play it safe and go for yes-no questions, interpreting anything from simple gestures to wild convulsions.

Or, he could just remove the gag and get answers amidst the string of curses.

"The hell is wrong with you?!" the now gag-less girl accused.

"I'm not the one who's tied up, so you listen to me. I've got some questions, youse gonna answer. Capiche?" A shoddily sharpened knife dug into Thalia's neck, careful not to draw blood that would ruin the pretty face.

"Humor me, comedian," Thalia spat, shredding the bonds that held her back as she kicked her newest offender away.

Suddenly, the tables turned. What once was efficient bondage was now torn across the old couch. Fumbling back in shock, Percy dropped his weapon—a rookie mistake in hampering hostages.

Percy expected an immobilized girl with her wounded leg. Like an angel of death, Thalia tore through the air dead centered on him, her upper body strength propelling her from the couch. Snatching the knife, Thalia began her questionnaire in his face.

"Who do you work for?" That sharp breath would cut his throat if the knife didn't slice first. Pinned beneath the tall attacker, Percy calmed himself so he would quiver in fear instead of trembling in fear.

"H-Hestia's Hous-sing."

"Uh, thank you for your service."

"Huh?" The random comment dispelled Percy's remaining timidness.

"Who paid you?"

Bright, green eyes blankly clashed with brilliant blue ones. "Hestia…who else?"

"Why are you being nice to me? What are you trying to play here, boy?"

Heh, boy…no other insult but that.

The pricking point on Percy's neck never wavered. Still, the kitchen had plenty of potentially lethal kill-y thingies. A break in concentration was all he—

"Gaaah!" Percy screamed. It was uncalled for, and frankly very unprofessional as a hostage, but so was involuntarily snapping a leg.

"Answer the damn question or the next doctor you see is a mortician," Thalia said, applying pressure to the next snappable bone.

So far, no one was satisfied and both were down a functioning leg. Things definitely backfired on Percy, while Thalia bluffed her way into control.

It was the beginning of an exciting stalemate, or some poor scuffle.

Knock knock knock. "Mr. Jackson? Are you alright?"

"Skata, hide!"

One muffled shuffle passed before the door was addressed, Percy taking care to smooth out any peculiar wrinkles.

"Is everything all right in there? Do I need to call the cops?" the man in white asked.

"Naw, just some rodents," Percy answered, revealing the cozy, cared-for carpet and coverings that contradict most of the rooms and tenants.

This man—William according to his name tag, Will to everyone but the boss—was someone you found wanting on good terms. He kept the confined quarters from falling apart and free of most household dust. All of his tools were either on him or racked on the little cart he pushed everywhere. The one Percy paid attention to was an older firearm with two barrels.

"Do I need to order birdshot?" Will asked, nudging the scamper scatterer between the dustpan and pry bar. "All youse gotta do is give me the word and I'll clean up the mess."

Rats. The little squeakers that ate his food and then his clothes. The shotgun offer was worth considering, after all, there was a large rat tied up in his quarters.

"Save birdshot for intruders, I hear there's a new corporation mixing up a batch of poison." Perhaps Percy was thinking of more subtle methods of persuasion.

"Really? I'll ask Lee about that. Maybe that poison could keep away the mafia too, eh?"

They shared a nervous laugh, then salutations as the day moved along. Percy stared at the shrinking cleaner and his cart as they went down the hall before returning to the fortress of his apartment.

Door closed, locks locked. Now where were they?

As Percy mentally reminded him that there was indeed a dangerous person in his apartment, said dangerous person grasped him firmly and launched him into the couch fort. Landing with the grace of an airborne penguin, Percy grabbed the closest thing he could find with the intention of causing harm. Unfortunately, he wasn't looking at what he grabbed.

"A pillow?" Thalia asked with brows cocked.

"Er, yeah!" Percy responded enthusiastically, launching the soft thing at the same speed he'd been launched.

Unimpressed in all categories, Thalia batted the puffy projectile out of the way. Percy loaded the next cushion, fired it, and watched it bounce off her head. There was a book on a nearby table. Percy threw that with mediocre accuracy. Unfazed by the last ammunition, Percy watched in slight shock as the girl let the denser object slam into her face, falling to reveal a wryly smiling girl.

"You know, you're kinda cute," Thalia commented, returning fire with the questionably sharpened knife and inhuman precision.

In a moment of stupid stupor, Percy raised a hand to his face, tracing a bleeding line along the cheekbone. Perhaps it wasn't the first time a girl hit on him, but it was the first time one had hit on him. In response to attackers, Percy would say something coherent and smart.

"W-wha?" Percy sputtered, neither coherent nor smart.

"Since it's my birthday, I'm feeling merciful. You forget about me, and I won't kill you, deal?"

A deal! Percy knew lots about deals! All you had to do was describe it in some detail and he'd tell you if it was a good one or not, like the deal he made not too long ago. This new deal sounded pretty good, like the pretty girl who offered the fantastic offer.

Pretty? Where'd that come from? Percy debated, his brain finally turning over.

"Hey, you got kelp in there?" Thalia asked, firmly grasping the honorable serviceman by his neck, squeezing tightly as one would hold the front grip of a Thompson submachine gun.

Choking was one of those sounds Thalia heard on the regular. By varying the level of pressure on the neck, Thalia found she could turn the awful gurgling noise into a crude form of throat singing, though the instrument didn't last long.

"Deal!" Percy wheezed, clawing his hands at the iron fist to no avail. Settling him gently on the couch, Thalia checked her old reliable for any remaining rounds; there were none left. Contemplating how her captor forgot to disarm her, and if she should spare the world of one more idiot, said captor finally realized who had the upper hand.

"I know where you live, I know where you work, and I know how to find you."

"What? How?!"

Thalia facepalmed, "You brought me to your room, you told me who you work for (great place, by the way), and literally everyone I know knows who you are, didja know that?"

Before Percy could respond with a famous single word, Thalia got close and kissed Percy on the cheek. Poor Percy could not keep up with the last five minutes, blacking out on Thalia's shoulder. Tired of rom-com, she shoved the big baby onto the couch that had seen a bit of action.

Limping away from the scene, Thalia booked it through the balcony and down the ladders. It was bad enough her injuries would earn her a loud earful once they reached camp. At worst this one might put her out for a few days. If that didn't do it, then the 15 other bullet-related wounds would.

Oh well, she'd have a few new toys to play with in the meantime.

A sparkling silver car with a luxuriously lush Roosevelt interior sat on the road not far from the ladders. Gone was the snow that topped other cars thanks to a purring engine since well before the frosty morning.

Speaking of frosty, Thalia regretted shredding parts of her overcoat to patch up her leg. Perhaps bleeding out to death wasn't on Thalia's mind, but it did ruin the rest of her attire. Despite the low cost of dry-cleaning, it would mean the loss of a favorite outfit. After all, Appearance was everything.

Thalia shiver-limped to the luxury vehicle and entered it. She quickly took the blanket hanging on the back of the front seats and wrapped herself into a cocoon.

"Did you have fun?" the driver scolded.

"Zoë, not now…" Thalia huffed, endlessly sinking into a world of comfort.

"You know she will not be happy you ran away with a boy."

"Don't say it like that!"

"You practically…how do you youngsters say it? Oh, dragged his ass with you."

"...He is kinda of cute…" Thalia sank further into the abyss to hide a madly blushing girl from the world.

"Kind of?"

"Kinda…" The vibrations of the engine filled the silence, followed by words of the third, often forgotten occupant.

"Ahem, we got what we came for, including three prohibited crates," Phoebe said, loading her magazines with fresh ammunition.

Who cares about Christmas candy? They'd smuggled federally prohibited items with no trouble. Why should they worry about a slight over-expenditure of the budget?

"She's right," Thalia agreed. "Drive on, miss princess."

"So sayeth the daughter of the king."

A/N: Surprise, I'm not dead. This was supposed to go with Chappie I, but most people don't go back to read old chappies, especially since most can't tell the difference.