(merry early Christmas! this is a really dialogue heavy chapter, sorry! also, it's kind of all over the place haha but i just word vomited and went with it :) enjoy :) love you guys lots!!!)

They took him to a torture chamber.

Or so it seemed. Percy's eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness, which starkly contrasted that of the brightly lit hallways they had spent minutes meandering through to find the unassuming door, tucked away in a leg of the labyrinth of a building.

The room reminded him of the Maze itself, which was obnoxiously large for the thin desk seated across the singular chair illuminated in the center, the metal of which gleamed menacingly, like the jowls of a rabid stray. The edges of the space were undetectable; shadows vignetted the area. He scoffed at the setup. The dentist's chair, clearly altered to cause as much discomfort as possible, was tacky enough; but the purposeful lack of lighting? Was this supposed to intimidate him?

He considered making the comment aloud, but his argument with Annabeth had left him drained- not to mention the anxiety coursing through his veins. For one, they took her to a lab to do who-knows-what. There would be no way for him to protect her should something happen. Of course, she was practically Einstein and could judo-flip anyone at a moment's notice (he knew this from experience, unfortunately), but it would still ease his nerves to know she was all right. Furthermore, his stomach swam with the sick feeling that Chiron's Iris-message was bound to have disastrous consequences.

Coulson frowned as he narrowed his eyes at the scruffy haired teen, who had frozen three paces into the interrogation chamber. The heavy steel door shut with a thud behind him and his escorts, the slight sliver of light the outside corridor provided scurrying out with it. The boy's bright, sea-green eyes were squinted in focus at something, although Coulson was nearly certain that that "something" was nothing more than a random point on the back wall. His face was easy to read, surprisingly; the kid's dark eyebrows were furrowed together, his lips drawn in a thin line. It was unclear if the source of the boy's evident worry was his current situation or not, but it was certainly there.

The agents who had led him in made eye contact for further instruction. The director signaled for them to get Jackson into the chair, so that they could begin their process. He wasn't sure if the entirety of that message was translatable from the simple nod he gave, but the response given sufficed.

"Jackson, chair," Agent Phillips commanded gruffly, his deep voice betraying his height. The alleged terrorist didn't react- in fact, it was although he hadn't even heard him, which was seemingly impossible. The man's booming voice bounced off the thick walls.

"Jackson. NOW."

Nothing.

"Alright," the loftier agent snapped, reaching for the captive's upper arm. Percy remained in a trance, up until the point the S.H.I.E.L.D. worker's cold fingers wrapped around his bicep. He snapped.

Without a word, the tanned teen's hand gripped the man's, ripping it off as though it burned him. The agent barely had the chance to cry out in pain before Jackson's elbow reeled back behind his head, his fingers curled into a fist instantly despite the rigidness of the brace. The previous look of uncertainty had completely dissipated in seconds, now replaced by an almost bored expression.

Percy's fist never did make contact- he never swung. His mind had clicked back into the present, away from the raging thoughts of his girlfriend and home. But, despite this, his jumpiness caused the few men and women that scarcely filled the room to leap to action in an attempt to contain him.

"Sorry," he mumbled to his almost-victim before a rather large man sporting a light stubble grabbed the arm he was lowering and launched him backwards without a second thought, which was impressive considering Jackson weighed quite a bit, being as built and tall as he was. His mass offered no resistance against the force. An involuntary yelp escaped the teen's lips when his back slammed against the arm of the metal chair, in addition to a bark of disapproval from Director Coulson; the act had been the definition of a late hit. An agent standing next to Coulson winced audibly as their prisoner hit the floor.

"What the hell, man?" Percy demanded, choosing his words carefully despite his anger. He picked himself off the frigid concrete floor. His eyes darted to the metallic contraption next to him before he turned to glare at the director, who was preoccupied in sending the agent responsible a message of disapproval with a sharp look. Phillips shook his head as well, although his arm now ached.

Percy's eyes flitted over to said agent. "It's a reflex, okay? You don't need- ahh," he paused, shaking out his braced wrist and mumbling a few choice words before continuing- "You don't need to fucking throw me like that."

"Watch your language," the director narrowed his eyes, sounding a little too fatherly for his own taste.

"Watch your agents," Jackson retorted, glancing down at the gleaming surface of the chair. He eyed the headrest suspiciously before adding, "I suppose you want me to sit in this, right? Nice design, what twisted section of IKEA did you find this beaut?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He plopped into the seat before cocking his head, meeting Coulson's eyes in a challenge and ignoring the throbbing pain in his back. He figured the more he could distract himself from the familiar feeling, the better. Of course, he was pissed as well. He'd been tossed around long enough in his life to know he didn't like it. His entire body buzzed with overflow.

"I love the whole setup you've got going on," Jackson offered, nodding as he pretended to inspect the room. "I mean, the dark room, people behind the desk, creepy-ass dentist's chair... did you steal this design from some '80's action film? All you need now are some heat lamps; you could put one right there, there..."

One or two of the people in the room snickered under their breath, fueling Percy's confidence. The agent who had pushed him, whose badge read Gardner, scoffed. "I liked it better when he wasn't talking."

Percy's eyes snapped to his, his eyebrows raised. "Yeah? Well, maybe if you got your head out of your-"

"Okay," Coulson cut him off, moving to a seat behind the desk the teen had referred to.

"Why are you letting him talk like that?" the agent demanded, not hiding his agitation as he threw an accusatory finger in Jackson's direction.

Percy smiled coyly. "Aw, did I hurt your feelings, Blondie?"

"Listen up, shithead-"

"Gardner!" the Coulson bellowed, snatching the agent's attention before he had a chance to sock the kid, who was looking terribly proud of himself for drawing out such a reaction. "Take a walk," the director instructed, gesturing towards the door.

"Sir-"

"That was an order," Coulson resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Half of this new director gig was babysitting.

The man's face flushed- with anger or embarrassment, it was hard to tell- and huffed before glancing back at their convict. "Buh-bye," Jackson said with a cheeky grin.

"Fuck you," the hefty blond sneered before marching out of the room, the clacking of his heels on the concrete the only noise in Percy's smug silence. Light filled the room for only a moment before the heavy door clanged shut, leaving only Agent Phillips, Coulson, Percy and the three data analysts.

"That was way too easy," Jackson laughed. "I have a five-year old neighbor who throws less tantrums than that guy. Maybe he should join your force; he's got a family to support."

Coulson just stared, resisting the urge to have Bobbi take over the interrogation. If she could handle Hunter, she may be able to handle this cocky kid. "Miranda, please do... whatever you need to do to get us started here."

"Yessir," the agent said quickly as she pushed herself away from the monitor. Her sleek black hair bounced as she strode over to the chair, glancing cautiously at the teen's curious expression before kneeling to snap the restraints around his ankles, and then his wrists. He flinched when she slid the pulse oximeters over his finger; as soon as she stepped back, finished, he shuddered forcefully. The small analyst jumped backwards in alarm when he yanked his arms back violently against the restraints. The two back at the desk shared a look of interest before recording the spike in the heart rate now displayed on their computers. Coulson watched as the teen inhaled sharply before squeezing his eyes shut, suddenly silent. A second or too passed before they opened again. Jackson shifted in the seat before his lips quirked up half-heatedly, as if his moment of panic hadn't occurred at all. "We gonna do this, or what?"

Coulson sighed, deciding to ignore the small episode. "What you're sitting in is a highly sophisticated polygraph system, which is programmed to take measurements of your blood pressure, skin conductivity, pulse, respiration, and brain activity. A camera here-" he stopped to point out a lens sitting on the table- "tracks every facial movement-"

"Wow," Percy whistled, interrupting. "How long did it take you to memorize all of that?"

"-Every detail is recorded to a tee. Even the best can't lie their way out of this, so don't- what are you doing?" the director stopped as he watched the teen stick his tongue out in his direction, in addition to several other ridiculous faces.

Percy crossed his eyes and wrinkled his nose. "You said your fancy camera 'tracks every facial movement,' so I thought 'Why not?'"

The agent seated next to Miranda pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh my god," he mumbled briefly. "How old is this guy?" he whispered to his partner.

Coulson ignored their conversation and asked a few basic questions to the comedian first, to establish standards for his tells. Getting him to tell his first lie wasn't difficult when he commanded for him to recite his full name.

He was pretty sure "Perseus Danger Jackson" wasn't it.

They went in circles for several minutes before the director began setting ultimatums. Sticking Jackson in his own, solitary cell without Chase seemed to break his shell.

"Okay, fine," Percy huffed in response. "I'll play nice."

"And answer without the usual level of sarcasm? I'm not bluffing here, Jackson."

It physically pained the demigod not to retort "Only if you ask the questions without the usual level of stupid," but he knew he was at the man's tipping point. And if he really had the authority he said he did...

Well, that's why it was better to make jokes and not think about it.

Coulson sighed in relief when the teen nodded. "Alright, let's get right to it then. You live in Melville, New York? With your mom, step-dad, and sister?"

Percy nodded.

"You have to say 'yes' or 'no,'" the male technician spoke up, his eyes trained on the data sprawled across the screens.

"What about 'si'?" the scruffy haired boy asked, squinting. He swallowed when Coulson sent him a warning look. "Okay, yes."

"She's your half-sister."

"Yes," Jackson bristled, fidgeting in the seat. "You've asked all these before, don't you want to know my favorite color or something?"

"Do you know who your father is?"

"I've told you this already," Percy stalled. Coulson crossed his arms, his dark-blue sport coat wrinkling under the action.

"Yes or no."

"Yes, I have told you this already. On your stupid plane. In the cell downstairs. He left me and my mom before I was born, and then my mom met Smel- Gabe Ugliano-"

"Yes. or. No. Do you know who your biological father is?" Coulson raised his voice, his tone threatening. Percy clenched his jaw, meeting Coulson's eye.

"No," the suspect insisted, but he didn't get very far. Agent Miranda's head shot up. "He's lying."

Percy's heart dropped. He was lost; how was he supposed to know what to say to this? He was trained to fight monsters: to slash, dodge, stab. Not to answer questions about Olympus while strapped to whatever weird futuristic lie detector machine he was in.

Where was Annabeth when you needed her.

He took a shaky breath as he watched the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. nod thoughtfully. "Fitz said something about you being Greek. Thoughts on that?"

"Maybe," he answered quietly.

"Yes or-"

"Yes, gods!" If they said 'yes, or no' one more time...

Couslon smiled. Now they were getting somewhere.

"Gods?" he repeated, raising his eyebrows as he continued to corner Jackson. He and the team had had an extensive meeting over their two newest captives after Lincoln's analysis of the blood sample; he didn't want to believe that Greek gods could possibly exist, but the information added up. The two's strange phrasing: gods, 'Hades' as substitution for hell, mentions of Tartarus? Jackson's Greek weapon with magic properties, his powers? And most convincingly, the fact that the two's DNA looked eerily similar to that of an Asgardian demigod. If Norse mythology existed... what was stopping the Ancient Greeks from coming to light as well?

And to think, he thought that the world couldn't have gotten any weirder.

Percy, meanwhile, was beginning to feel extremely claustrophobic. The room seemed to have dropped ten degrees, the shadows lining the walls slowly crawling towards him. His back still ached, and the metal of the chair was like ice. His hand began to throb. There was no possible way these people could have figured out that he was a demigod. How the Hades was he supposed to answer a mortal asking whether or not his dad was a fucking Greek God? A mortal? Could he convince them he was in a cult, maybe? That could be a thing, right?

Turns out, no. The freaking lie detector they had set up did its job well. He may be able to slaughter monsters and beat Annabeth in combat, but he wasn't a trained liar. White lies, maybe he could handle. But not ones like these.

He tried to rationalize with himself as the director pushed more questions onto him. He barely heard them, the thoughts in his head were so loud. So what if they knew about Greek gods? He had powers, he was Poseidon's son, big whoop. They couldn't get too far with that.

"Are there more of you?" Coulson asked with surprising intensity after getting him to admit he was a Greek demigod. He didn't have a choice. They seemed like they already knew, with every creepy grin they gave when the machine showed he was lying.

Fuck.

Percy focused on the loop holes in that question. Were there more of who, sons of Poseidon? There was Tyson, but he wasn't a demigod.

"No," there aren't any more demigod sons of Poseidon.

Coulson looked at Agent Miller, the male technician, expectantly. But everything on the monitor screamed that their suspect was telling the truth. Coulson furrowed his eyes. That couldn't be right.

"Are there more demigods, Jackson? Besides you and Chase?"

Percy's eyes glazed over. He didn't know what these people planned to do with this information, but he sure as hell wasn't going to give up the rest of his friends. For them to have dragged Annabeth into this whole thing was enough. He didn't need more lives on his hands.

Time stopped as visions of men in black suits invading Half-Blood Hill sprung into his mind. The image was vivid; everyone in handcuffs, including the youngest campers... crying. Leo, Hazel trying to fight back only to be shot.

Home, gone.

His eyes squeezed shut to rid himself of the image, but the darkness behind his lids only morphed into the background of Tartarus, the pain in his back translating into the flashback.

"Tartarus, Percy. We're in Tartarus."

His mind spun as Annabeth muttered the words. No, that wasn't right.

"But, we found you. We were going to go home?" he furrowed his eyebrows together as he spoke, his tone as confused as he felt. His stomach flopped when she pulled away from the hug, his shoulder now wet with tears. Her eyes were filled with them. He opened his mouth to speak when another wave of sickness hit him; he turned as stomach contractions wrenched through his body; but he had nothing left to throw up. Tears of his own welled in his eyes, but more from pain as he spit a mix of bile and saliva onto the ground.

Annabeth absentmindedly rubbed his back, her heart clenching . She didn't even bother to check if the sticky dampness of his back was blood or sweat; she didn't want to know. She knew loyalty wasn't her fatal flaw, but it was hard not to feel guilty when the one reason Percy was down here was because of her. By refusing to let go of her, he had ultimately signed his suicide note.

She loved him so much.

A sob left her lips, despite her attempts to hide it. Percy turned towards her, his face screaming in pain, but he managed a smile anyway. He grabbed her face and forced her to meet his eyes.

"Hey, look. It's going to be okay. It's just Tartarus. Tartar sauce, right?"

"Percy-"

"No. It's you and me versus Tartarus, okay? Listen to me. The plan was to find you and your mom's creepy statue and go home. That's still the plan. We just have to go through this first."

"You and I."

Percy nodded, keeping his grip on her cheeks, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. It was almost possessive, and she loved it. She giggled, although it came out like more of a strangled croak. "No, you and I, Seaweed Brain. Not you and me."

His face was deadly serious. "As long as you're mine and here with me, I don't give a fuck what grammar says about it. And I'd kiss you right now, but I just threw up twice and I can barely see your face and-"

Annabeth released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Just hug me, then," she whispered. And he did. And besides herself, she smiled. In Tartarus.

Imagine that.

Jackson's breaths came out in short pants after Coulson's question, the confident aura once surrounding him now overcome by a darker force. The sheen of sweat on his face reflected the lighting back towards the table. Miranda turned to the director uncertainly, as if to ask what to do.

So this was what Mack had referred to when he mentioned the elevator scene.

It was uncomfortable to watch; seeing the pure panic on Jackson's tanned face, which looked ghastly in the lighting, was almost too much. At the same time, he was concerned it was a gimmick. The change in demeanor was suspiciously fast, and especially convenient.

"Coulson," Agent Miranda spoke up, her eyebrows drawn up in concern.

"His heart rate is almost at 200," the other announced.

"Is that bad?" Coulson replied, watching as the boy trembled where he sat. Miller turned to him incredulously. "His resting bpm was 85."

The director nodded. "So bad," he mumbled under his breath, feeling his own onset of panic. He'd seen PTSD victims before, but this... usually they were the upwards of thirty, forty, fifty years old. Not seventeen. Percy Jackson may be a terrorist, a demigod (which, what the hell, world? Was Norse mythology not enough?)... but he was still just a kid.

He acted on impulse, for better or worse. "Get him out of the chair," he directed, spinning towards the operatives. Neither moved, looking scared out of their minds. "Get him out of the chair!" he repeated, moving quickly to remove the restraints himself. Miranda moved to flip the lights on, while Miller helped the director lift the boy out of the chair and onto the ground; his skin was clammy and cold to the touch. A small part of him expected the teen to leap up and the first chance he got to try and escape, but his body merely crumpled to the ground, void of the life it had had just moments prior.

"Get Chase," he whispered to Miller as he stared at the trembling teen. He didn't know what to do.

God, what if Mack was right?

. Merry early Christmas, have a merry holidays guys! also, 120K? I don't have much time, but wow... just. It really means so much :) you guys never fail to put a smile on my face. So I hope you know how much I appreciate it:)

Love,

JustAnotherGirlmcg