It's not a general stereotype—thinking in the Labyrinth, that is. Everything is quick and rash and dangerous. Everything is instinct based and far from any logic the daughter of Athena knew. It's corrupt and hocus-pocus trickery; just what she hated. That a child of Athena could function without logic, it was beyond her. Daedalus, the old man, was far ahead of what his mind actually processed, she was nearly certain. How could he build something, engender the idea, that anyone could possibly maneuver the maze.

Her fingers glided along the left wall, as she had Percy and the others do, a back pack slung over her shoulders, and as she went her hand slipped into an empty pocket. A tunnel of pure darkness, and the light only seemed to be less existent the deeper it went. She considered turning into it off of some wild hype that it was older, but her mind scolded her. Her logic didn't work in a place such as the Labyrinth.

A snuffling, and the sound of something dragging across the ground, echoed from the tunnel and she was suddenly sure of herself. Going down that tunnel was not one of her options. She almost turned around when, off to her right, her eyes caught the faint glimmer of a light. She couldn't be sure when the tunnel had appeared, but it made no difference. She'd rather see what she was fighting, and staying where she was didn't offer her that; she couldn't see but a few inches in front of her. So she broke into a run down the tunnel.

That was stupid on her part.

The light, no matter how far she knew she had run, seemed to continually stay the same distance away, impossible to reach and yet so close. She wouldn't give up chasing it, running as far as she could. Something shuffled behind her and sent a cold shiver down her spine. She glanced over her shoulder to the solid dark and what traces of hope were wiped away.

Annabeth almost gave up, yet the Labyrinth wasn't done toying with her. A tunnel opened off to her right and she grudgingly took opportunity, swinging into it. She was breathing heavy, sweating and squinting, trying to see even a speck of something good, something worth her struggle. Her eyes roamed back to the tunnel and the darkness she had been running from flooded down the corridor, like a current of cool water, like a living creature only seconds before the tunnel closed off.

"My luck," she murmured and dropped to the floor with her back against the wall. Her hand involuntarily reached into the bag to pull her Yankees cap. She slapped it on her thigh.

She laid her head back and was disheartened when her thoughts lingered to Percy. That was her now-or-never moment and she had taken it, but it felt so late. It was too late because that moment, on Mt. Saint Helens, when everything was falling apart and she kissed him, he disappeared. She knew he had been lying. She knew it and she left him there alone.

She fingered her lower lip, pulled on it, and pinched herself just thinking of what she could possibly do to survive this trap from Hades. She was going to get out; nothing was going to stop her.

And her heroic approach: sleep.

Because every hero needed their naps more than any amount of training or testing on the field. Her eyes closed to the cold silence of the dark and she dreamed.

And in her dreams she founded a new world. It seemed she was hovering, resting among the clouds, staring down at a paradise among a sea, dappled with trees and vibrant blooms. The details of the world were a blur, which of course annoyed her to no end, and the longer she gazed the worse her vision became.

She blinked.

She ran her fists over her eyes.

She formed binoculars with her hands.

Okay, she thought. Okay. Fine; relax.

And she did; she simply rested her chin in her palms and waited. The moon rose and fell, the stars, surprisingly bright, blinked in and out of existence. Some days coated with a sea breeze, others more resembling ozone, became increasingly longer, increasingly painful and boring. Each past with blobs; coffee stains on a pristine sheet of white paper; imperfect tarnishes becoming an odd regularity. People.

As she waited—for what felt horribly similar to eternity—she could faintly distinguish the mouth of a cave, flowing curtains blanketing the entrance. The blobs, the imperfect stains would pass through the mouth's lips with a simple shove of the tongues and they would mingle. When the lighter person made a move towards its companion, they seemed distant and distracted, not welcoming with open arms.

Annabeth

She blinked her eyes from the single figure standing on the shore that she had been watching for—days, or was it hours?—and glanced around her metaphysical figure.

Annabeth

The words carried on a cool sea breeze to her ears were oddly familiar, but so, so distant. So lost and far-away and just so… wistful, she guessed. They were tired and wistful and just all-around full of empty emotions.

What should I do?

She assumed she should've known how to answer the question, what to do and how to go about getting that done. But she didn't and she sat silently, and she waited. She recognized the two figures. It hadn't honestly taken her long to realize, but when she stayed there silently observing, she understood that he was finally happy and that she had no right to take that away.

Percy was on Calypso's island.

And it couldn't have produced a stranger feeling, one she was unfamiliar with.

Could have been acceptance, or maybe defeat. But the word she felt crawl up her throat and nip at her tongue, the word she choked on…

She was so jealous.

Gods, I hope you're okay.

Oh, she was so sure that he was really worried about her, what with the lonely damsel of a goddess and the beauties of her haven all wrapping around his mind and clouding his vision. Yes, she would just happen to be on the top of that stupid little list of his.

She hid her face from the ghost island and ran her fingers over one silvered streak, where a burden on her shoulders became heavier and nothing made much sense than a screaming relief. But she didn't scream for fear that he'd hear her. She didn't whisper a reply like the ones coming into her head. She could take the cliché approach and drawl out a monologue of her intense and unwanted feelings, but her mouth betrayed her. When did she care for the cliché?

She glared at him; she narrowed her eyes at that careless, disgusting blotch of beautiful imperfections and ripe kind-hearted intentions. That loyal little toad. How could he abandon… the entire world for some mistress of flowers and peace and all things not entitled to a demigod? How could he forget—well, his mother? He hadn't thought of what she would feel upon his death.

Despicable hero.

Now she was betraying herself, because she knew somewhere that she could care more for the stake of the world; she was mad that he had abandon her after she had taken charge and kissed the buffoon. Gods he was dense.

She cursed aloud, in pure English, her gaze softening. "Percy, just come home."

She woke to two strong arms wrapped around her, pulling on her shoulder, shaking her to life and she unsheathed her knife.

A/N: hey, what do you know? I'm back. Not with long chapters, but with an update of sorts. I'm sorry about the whole 'HIATUS' issue, and that turned out to be pointless. Nothing worked out for the good and I shouldn't have bothered with dappling in subjects like that.

Moving on, um, credit for this chapter is mainly aimed at this song—All We Are by Matt Nathanson—but I found it while watching NCIS. What a surprise.

Oh! And I didn't take down the little author's note so that you would see this chapter update in case you were interested. I'll handle that later.

So… yeah. Bye.