All the other kids with the pumped up kicks

You better run, better run outrun my gun

All the other kids with the pumped up kicks

You better run, better run faster than my bullet

All the other kids with the pumped up kicks

You better run, better run outrun my gun

All the other kids with the pumped up kicks

You better run, better run faster than my bullet

— "Pumped Up Kicks," Foster The People

For a second I was frozen.

That also might have had something to do with the fact that I couldn't breathe. Whoever it was that had my neck clenched in their hands wasn't Rowan — the hands were far too big. But they'd somehow managed to sneak up on Rowan and I — hell, for all I knew Rowan was in on it.

I was an idiot. I know all of you were yelling Don't do it! But I ignored you, and ignored myself. I will probably continue doing so, like the dumbass little bastard I am.

I shouldn't have trusted. It was bullshit. I wasn't Gracie. Why the hell did I think Rowan — if her name even was Rowan — was trustworthy.

Then, blind panic set in. I clawed desperately at the hands, but they only tightened, and I choked, icy water trickling with agonizing slowness down my neck.

WHAT THE FUCK, YOU IDIOT?! YOU KNOW THIS!

I couldn't tell whose voice it was, but no matter who they were, they were right.

Sure, I spent nearly all my time in the infirmary, but I was still a demigod. And although I sucked at battle training, especially hand-to-hand combat, I did remember what I'd learned.

If I had nothing else going for me, I had my anger.

Before I could allow the hands to tighten any more, I dropped.

I really didn't want to be plunged back into the disgusting, frigid water, but I did, and without hesitation.

I lunged forward, curling into a ball as I did so. The hands were tight, but they weren't particularly strong — the sewer slime acted as an excellent lubricant, and whoever had their hands around my throat was probably even more wrecked than I was.

And the hands slipped.

I didn't screw around. I whirled, driving a fist like a piston straight into what I really hoped was my attacker's crotch.

Judging by the gasping, gagging wheeze of someone who's in too much pain to scream, I finally got a bull's-eye. And I thought all those hours on the archery range with Kayla were a waste. She would be so proud.

I was able to suck in a welcome gasp of sewer air that would have, in any other circumstance, been incredibly unwelcome. I rolled to the side, splashing into the frigid water for a second record-breaking time that night, the air shocked right back out of my lungs.

Biting back a yelp, I came up on my knees. I still couldn't see my attacker — it was pitch-black in the tunnel without Rowan's flashlight — but ahead of me, there was a yell of "Shit!" followed by a large splash and a "Fucking bastard!"

Jesus. Whoever this was was the least stealthy killer of all time.

I scrambled off my knees and was nearly pushed back over by the raging current. If I hadn't known better, I would have said it was even more powerful and difficult to stand in than before. My clothes were completely soaked; my hair trickled freezing water into my eyes.

I was still gasping for air, completely blind in the murkiness of the tunnel, almost all sound cut off by the noise of the current.

But I was still a child of the music god, and I still had excellent hearing.

Backing against the rough, slimy wall, I tilted my head toward the direction the cussing had come from. There; a series of larger splashes. They could have been made by water slapping against rocks, only there weren't any rocks . . . not in the part of the tunnel, anyway.

It sounded as though the person, whoever they were, was blundering through the water, lost without the use of a flashlight. Judging by the shouting and cursing, they had fallen into the water and were having some difficulty getting back up.

"You little —" There was quite a lot of agonized grunting, followed by a wordless, gurgling scream.

I laughed — actually laughed, so hard my stomach ached. It felt like my throat was being rubbed raw with sandpaper, but at the moment, I didn't care. "Yeah, karma's a bitch!" My voice echoed around the narrow tunnel, bouncing off the walls and ringing in my ears.

"I'll kill you! I'll fucking —" There was a muffled thud that sent the whole wall vibrating. Apparently, He Of The Recent Nut Shot had slammed into a wall. Without question, he knew these tunnels better than me, but, unlike me, he had to navigate with a punched crotch. Guys, you know how painful this is. Girls . . . well, it hurts like hell for you guys, too, but take my word for it, it's worse for guys.

There was more cursing, as well as a sloshing sound as he staggered backwards. "You little bastard . . . you're dead." I thought that he meant for his words to be low and menacing, but they were just whimpered and pained.

Well, I could stand around listening to this for another few hours or I could . . . what? I couldn't run away; I had no idea where I was going and no light. I'd only managed to get this far with Rowan's help.

And Rowan . . . I still didn't know where she was.

And now I was here, stuck in an underground tunnel full of hypothermic sewer water.

With a guy, bigger and probably older, who wanted me dead and had damn near accomplished it.

And really . . . how was I supposed to do anything or get anywhere with him stalking me?

That's a good point, a voice I didn't recognize muttered. He wants you dead, after all. I don't know why he tried to kill you the first time, but he did, and you punched him where the sun don't shine. Now shit's personal. You'd be better off . . . neutralizing the threat.

It was true.

I would.

But still . . . what was I supposed to do?

Kill him?

Wasn't that his way of thinking?

I wasn't supposed to — I couldn't. That wasn't my job. That wasn't . . . that went against everything I'd been taught from . . . well, that mysterious group that we all just know as Them.

Okay, so I won't kill him, I thought uneasily. I'll just . . . knock him out. And then . . . I don't know. Try to find my way back. We're still at the fork, so if we pick a tunnel . . . I guess we've got a one-in-three shot of getting it right.

That worked.

I could do that.

But still . . .

What if I went too far?

I wasn't really used to knocking people out manually. I usually used formaldehyde, or anesthesia . . .

No time! the voice snapped. Do it!

I tensed for a moment, head tilted, like a dog that has scented a rabbit. I could hear heavy, labored breathing; he seemed to be leaning against the wall to my right, apparently under the impression that I couldn't hear him.

I felt a crooked smirk spread across my face.

Well. Time to dissuade him of that notion.

Before I had time to think about what I was doing, before I had time to let Claire, Harper, and the rest verbally beat some sense into me, I lunged.

I connected with a soaking wet, freezing body, driving my shoulder into his chest. He screamed with shock as we both collapsed against the sewer wall, slime, algae and cold drops of water raining down on us.

He howled with pain as his head connected with the wall — I couldn't see it, but an audible clack rang through the tunnel as his teeth smashed together. I would have winced, but I was still grinning like a madman, rendered completely numb with freezing water, and I didn't have a single ounce of sympathy to lend my would-be-killer. He wanted me to feel this? Good. Now he gets to feel this too. Every fucking bit of it.

He was driven backwards, his shoulders pinned against the disgusting wall. I slammed against him, pressing a forearm against his throat, driving an elbow into his ribs.

I've done this before. Even if I wasn't paying attention.

There's no logical reason I was able to hold him down like that — I was both smaller and less experienced in hand-to-hand combat, not to mention younger.

But I still had the blood of the gods, and he was still a human.

I think I envied him more than anything.

For just a second, his eyes locked with mine. I couldn't see more than a flicker, but it was enough — wet, terrified, glistening in the gloom of the sewer.

I think he might have been about to say something — a final insult, maybe, or a plea for his life.

He didn't get the chance before my hands locked around his throat.

Clenching his neck like a vise, I slammed him against the bottom of the tunnel, water fanning into air around us, raining down, further soaking our hair and clothes, running down our faces.

His face was nearly pinned completely under the rushing water, but I could hear gurgling, choking breaths, the last gasps of a drowning man. He choked and spat, only for his mouth to be flooded with more gray water. I pulled him out briefly, just enough for him to suck in a desperate gasp of air before slamming him back in, sending water droplets raining down on us.

He gagged, clawing desperately at my hands and face, opening up bloody furrows along my cheeks and fingers. His thrashing grew weaker.

Still smirking, I tightened my grip.

Then the dripping arms locked around my neck, and I was jerked backwards into the freezing water.

I feel like I've been here before, I thought wryly.

It was true. I had. Only that was hands around my neck, this time, it was a full-on headlock.

I was ripped away from my attempted murderer, leaving him scrambling away, still gagging and gasping for air. He was only audible for a second; after that, he seemed to disappear off into the tunnel.

I laughed and spat after him. Yeah, good. Run. See how fucking far you get. I hardly even noticed the third person, didn't even care I was once again a captive. Sure. knock him out. See how long it takes. Blood's in the water.

"You fucking idiot!" A familiar voice shouted. "What the hell were you trying to do — kill him? What the fuck were you doing?"

There were so many things I should have said — I only meant to knock him out; I wasn't really thinking about murder, it just kind of happened; they were in my head, telling me to do it, and I rarely argue with them. If the other ones had been louder and spoken up, I might not have . . . But the idiots didn't stop me. I could have told Rowan all that and more; I could have written her an entire novel starting with my neglectful upbringing (not to mention him) and ending with the fact that I'd just got drunk and tried to kill my best friend.

Instead, I decided to stick with the classics.

"He started it."

Rowan clenched her arms tighter, and I choked, clawing at her arms. Fuck, she was strong. And whatever surge of power I'd felt before seemed to have deserted me.

Well, maybe it was hanging out with my siblings. I had to stifle a smirk at that one.

Rowan seemed to be speaking through clenched teeth when she hissed in my ear, "I'm going to ask you one more time — what the fuck were you doing?"

I should have laughed. It was well within my reach to kill, both physically and mentally. I would have been able to kill the older boy with just my hands, had Rowan not caught me by surprise. I'd once killed a scorpion by burning through its neck, and if I'd done it once, I could probably do it again. I was half god, for fuck's sake, and Rowan was pure human.

But there was something in her voice that I'd never heard before in any voice except my own, and I had never expected to hear . . . I had no doubt that my siblings had sounded like that at some point in their lives — most of them, anyway.

But when Rowan used that voice, as we were alone in a dark sewer tunnel at night, as she was slowly cutting off my air supply, heedless of the bloody scratches covering her arms . . .

I had no doubt that Kronos himself would have run away from her. Hell, I'd rather have gone another round with the immortal Titan lord himself than face Rowan.

But I didn't have a choice.

So I took a deep breath, and released it in what was possibly the longest, saddest sigh of my life. Rowan loosened her headlock enough for me to talk.

"I don't know," I said quietly.

Rowan paused, her arms loosening even more, but I didn't try to escape. It didn't matter. "You . . . don't know?"

I shook my head. "I don't. I only meant to knock him out so I could escape, not kill him, but I —" What? I got a bunch of voices in my head shouting instructions at me, while a bunch more voices are hovering over my shoulder, wrapping their hands around my brain?

Yeah, she'd believe that one. Bet your boots.

"I just . . . got mad," I finished. It was the closest I'd ever come to telling someone . . . anything, really. But as I've said, Rowan scares me. And — Rowan scares me. I just said that.

"And if I let you go, you're not gonna try and kill anything?"

I shook my head.

"If I bring you to our camp, you're not gonna try and kill anything?"

I shook my head.

"Okay." The arms around my neck finally fell away, and Rowan stepped back. A second later, there was a click, and her flashlight was turned on, a white beam lighting up the tunnel.

I squinted against the bright light, a hand in front of my eyes. "Ow."

Rowan shook her head. "Jeez, you look even worse than before."

"I — shit."One of my arms scraped against the side of the tunnel, and I winced. In addition to all the cutting slices, I now had several fingernail gashes in my arms.

"Oh, look, poor baby got his arms scratched up." Rowan glanced down at her own arm scratches, then shrugged. "Whatever. Shit like this happens a lot down here."

"Uh — yeah, great. Remind me why I came with you?" I shook some of the water out of my hair, showing myself with icy droplets.

"Because you wanted to." Rowan shrugged. "And you didn't really have another choice."

"Yeah, well . . ." I glanced around the tunnel. We were still at the intersection, although I had no idea which of the three tunnels we had come out of and which we had to go down. "Hey, where did you go?"

Rowan wrung some of the water out of her rainbow T-shirt. "Down the tunnel . . . not the one I live down, the other one. We usually avoid that one, but I panicked."

"Really," I said dryly, "and you thought it was a good idea to leave me here with that . . . whoever that was?"

"No," she said simply, flicking her mass of curly hair out of her face. "But I thought you were behind me. Turns out, that dickhead got to you first."

"No shit," I muttered. "But who —"

She grabbed my shoulder. "Just come on. We can continue this conversation on the way."

"Must we?"

"Fuck you."

"So . . ." I said as we continued down the righthand tunnel, "you were going to tell me who that guy was?"

She bit her lip, sighed, then shook her head. "His name is Ryan Ambers. He showed up . . ." She clicked her flashlight on and off, effectively turning the sewer line into a disco club bathed in strobe lights. Oddly enough, neither of us felt like dancing. "A long time ago. I was a lot younger then, too young to remember. He's kind of . . . violent? And he really doesn't like me. That's why I ran. And he doesn't trust anyone, especially not the new guys."

For a second, I paused. Ryan's name was . . . familiar, to say the least. But that was . . . that was a coincidence. That, I could actually believe. Still, though . . .

"And he especially doesn't trust guys who look like — like you." Rowan glanced apologetically at me. "I don't know how he could have seen you if the tunnels were that dark, though . . . probably just the new-guy thing."

My heart was nearly beating out of my chest, but I raised my eyebrows. "Guys who look like me?"

"Yeah, you know . . . curly blond hair, blue eyes, tan skin . . . I have no idea why. He's a weirdo, all right."

A weirdo. Maybe, but there was something else . . .

"And where did he go?"

"He's . . ." She shrugged. "Who the hell knows? I don't think he's okay, you know, upstairs." She tapped the side of her head.

"He's okay upstairs," I muttered. "It's because —"

"What?"

I shook my head. "Nothing, just . . . if he's back at the — wherever it is you live, I want to talk to him."

She stared at me. "Why?"

"Because . . ." I shook my head. "It's hard to explain, but I need to check — to make sure I'm not going crazy."

She shook some of the water out of her hair. "Well, I can tell you right now — uh, whatever your name is — you're going crazy. Or you already are crazy, or something."

I shook my head. "No, I — I'm not crazy, I'm just . . ."

Rowan smirked. "A little unwell?"

"What?"

"Never listen to Matchbox Twenty?" She snorted. "Uncultured swine. Alright, homework — listen to "Unwell." Great song."

"But you can't —"

"Why not?"

"I don't even know how to talk to you."

"Good. Then don't."

So we continued our trek through the sewer in silence.

"Stop."

I blinked, looking around. "What? Why?"

"Because this is the entrance."

I looked around. The tunnel looked exactly as it had the past several minutes — slimy walls, dripping ceilings, unnerving darkness, gray water rushing around our feet. "The entrance . . . Where?"

Rowan smirked. She didn't say a word, just angled her flashlight beam up. My eyes automatically followed the beacon of light, and I gasped. Perfectly camouflaged by the algae and wall slime, there was a gaping hole in the concrete wall — large, and directly in front of us, but well hidden. The height of the hole prevented most of the gray water from entering the hole, allowing in only a trickle.

I unstuck my jaw. "Oh. Cool."

She continued smirking. "It's cute when you try to pretend you're not impressed."

"I — uh —"

"Don't worry. It's good that you're impressed by a hole in a sewer wall. Means there's hope for you." Rowan plowed on through the raging water and, bracing one hand against the low ceiling, swung herself into the hole. "Now move it."

"Um, okay . . ." I trudged ahead to meet her, and placed one hand against the ceiling as she had done. I shivered as bts of slime wrapped around my fingers, but pushed aside my feelings and clumsily scrambled into the hole.

Rowan snickered. "Graceful. Very graceful."

"Fuck you." I stood up, my head just brushing the top of the tunnel. "So, how far does this thing go?"

"Probably thirty seconds." Rowan pointed her flashlight ahead and resumed walking. I obediently followed, moving much faster now that there was no more than an inch of slow moving water to pull me back.

Sure enough, we came to a hole in the bottom of the tunnel. It was too dark to see into; I expected Rowan to shine her flashlight into it, but instead, she dimmed it down and turned to face me. Her expression was serious now, her eyes flashing in the gloom of the tunnel. "Okay, a few things before we meet the others. I'm just telling you these so you don't get killed, or — well, actually, seems more likely that you'll kill someone. Whatever. Just listen up."

"I'm all ears," I said. "Well, actually, I just have the two, but —"

"Shut the fuck up, and don't go making bad jokes." I snapped my jaw shut. "Okay, half the people down here are fine and I'm sure you guys'll get along famously, but the other half . . . they're really too drunk or too high to even know what they're doing, so don't expect much kindness from them."

"Oh." I thought about that, now understanding it better than ever. "The guy who attacked me, Ryan . . . was he drunk? Or high?"

She bit her lip. "I don't think so, and that's the concerning part. But we're not talking about that."

"I know. Just had to make sure."

"Nothing's for sure, but . . . anyway, just be careful around those people. And plenty of them will try to pickpocket you — not their fault, they just need to put dinner in their stomachs. But if you have cash —"

"I don't, thanks."

"Keep it protected. And whatever you do, do NOT buy anyone's drugs. There's a pretty high chance they'll get you killed, or at the very least, addicted. Well, actually, that's probably worse."

I shook my head. Getting hooked on drugs was one thing I could be positive I'd never do . . . aside from the whole pine tree thing. "Oh, don't worry. I don't do any drugs. The closest I've ever gotten is huffing pine sap."

She squinted at my face, trying to make sense of my words. "Okay, I'll assume you're not joking, but I'm not gonna ask right now . . . save it for the explanation, yes?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"Cool. Just wanted to make sure we have all the bases covered." She pointed her flashlight beam through the hole, and I caught a glimpse of a dry tunnel, dirty sheets hanging on the walls and the ground strewn with trash. "Alright, let's do this. Home sweet home."

The abandoned tunnel was not sweet, even more not a home.

The entire thing reeked of garbage and gray water. The filthy sheets had been hung up in an attempt to keep the wall slime from covering everything, although it just seeped through the sheets. Much of it dripped from the ceiling, dropping cold clumps of algae down everyone's shirts. The ground was cracked and dirty concrete, covered with a thin layer of dirt and trash.

Even sadder than that were the people.

As we made our way through the tunnel, I counted at least forty of them, ranging in all ages from infants to ninety-year-olds. All of them had grimy skin, their fingernails cracked and packed full of dirt, their hair tangled and filthy. Many wore strange combinations of donation-bin clothing. Their faces were old and exhausted, even those of the children, as if they were sick of carrying on with life and didn't even know why they were bothering. They slowly turned pairs of sad, heavy eyes on us as we walked past, before returning their gazes to whatever had previously occupied their apathetic attention. They were clustered around garbage can fires, curled up defeatedly against the walls, passed out in grimy, torn sleeping bags, and slowly pacing around in circles like caged animals. It didn't escape my notice that none of them seemed to care about my cutting scars, which was probably because several of them donned similar badges of hopelessness themselves. The sheets on the walls were soaked with piss and shit, and I was sure I would never get the smell of drunk sweat and vomit out of my nose.

This was where my cabin belonged. Not camp.

I was almost definitely more at home than Rowan was, and I hated it.

"Come on," she whispered, all traces of emotion gone from her face. "I need to check on — on my mom."

"On your mom . . ." I remembered what she had said when she had first seen me lying hungover on the alley floor — "Man, and I thought my mom was shitfaced."

"She — she's a drug addict, right? Or a drunk?" I winced. "Sorry, personal question. You don't have to answer —"

Rowan held up her hand. "No use lying. You'll see her in a second anyway." I stared down at the ground for a long moment as we continued walking. "She's both, really . . . I take care of her the best I can, but it's not easy."

"No dad?"

"No dad."

We both fell back into silence, and then Rowan pointed to the wall. "Here."

I stared at the sheet, then blinked and did a double take. Slumped blankly on the floor against the wall was a woman, her clothes so dirty and skin so dark she had blended right into the filthy sheet.

As we got closer, Rowan's mother came into horrific detail. She was wearing an old fake leather jacket, a pale purple T-shirt, black jeans, and faded hiking boots. Every single article of clothing, even the boots, was tattered, coated with dirt and soaked with piss and booze. Her face was lined, her eyes cloudy, although she couldn't have been more than thirty. An empty bottle was gripped loosely in her outstretched hand.

She didn't react as Rowan and I approached. Rowan kneeled down next to her and gently gifted her up to a sitting position before kissing her on the cheek. She gently pried the bottle from her mother's grip before addressing her directly. "Mom, I'm back. And I brought a friend."

Her eyes were milky, unfocused. "A . . . friend?" It seemed to cost her enormous effort to speak; her words were slurred and heavy. At least we could understand her.

Rowan put a hand on her shoulder. "That's right, a friend. We don't know his name, and it's better if we don't." She turned to me. "Hey, is it okay if Mom touches your face?"

I took another look at the woman's eyes, cloudy and unfocused like creamy marbles, and realized for the first time that she was blind. "Yeah, I — sure."

"Come over here," Rowan ordered. "Kneel down in front of her. She won't bite."

I was hesitant to kneel down on the shit-covered floor, and even more hesitant to let this drunk stranger touch my face, but I did as I was told, and without shuddering. The hands came up, cracked and lined with dirt, and I waited patiently, perfectly still, as she gently traced her fingers around my eyes, nose, and mouth, running her hands along every part of my face I had never noticed before. I imagined what it would be like to only be able to understand new people through their facial structure, and I had to suppress another shudder.

After what felt like years, she drew her hands away. All three of us were silent for a moment, and then she said, in a slightly clearer voice, "You're thirteen."

I didn't even try to lie. "Yes," I said simply.

"And I can't ask your name . . ." She sighed and leaned against the wall. "Well, my name's Adina. One of us may as well know."

I inclined my head slightly. "Thank you, Adina."

"You were drinking."

Rowan shot me a how are you going to take this look. I decided that honesty was serving me well enough. "I was."

She smiled slightly. "A thirteen year old drinking . . . we see that more and more."

I lifted my chin, even though I knew she couldn't see it. "Maybe, but I bet you've never heard a drinking story like mine."

Her humorless smile widened. "Boy, I've heard every drinking story there is to know and more."

Rowan gave me a well? You said you'd explain look. She excelled at giving looks.

I took a deep breath. Was I really about to tell this story? Not all of it. Never all of it. Just the parts about the drinking . . . yeah. That was what I'd do.

You said you were only going to knock Ryan out, one of the unidentified voices whispered. Look how well that turned out.

Shut up, I thought back.

I took a deep, shaking breath. I said I would never tell anyone this story, ever. Now was I really about to tell it to a weird sewer girl and a hungover blind mom?

Yes, I was.

Because it was drowning me.

Because they were choking me.

They were going to kill me for this.

They could certainly try.

I stared straight into Adina's milky, cloudy eyes before turning to meet Rowan's near-black ones.

And I began to smile.

Kneeling in an abandoned sewer, in a circle of filthy, bloody degenerates, a genuine grin spread over my face.

"Want to bet?"

I think I'll leave it at here for now — I want to get this chapter out today, and Will's story is gonna take a while. There's gonna be plenty of parts even you guys don't know.

I also want to tell Rowan's story, which is just as, if not more, crazier, and I'm not sure if I'm gonna tell it in the same chapter as Will's or not — we'll have to see.

Reviews please!