stockholm syndrome

By: xXxDaughteroftheKingxXx

AN: Do your eyes deceive you? Has Lex really gotten out of writing all Legend of Korra stories and finally written a Percy Jackson story?

Uh, heck, yes.

Okay, I admit, this is like the only one I have still. But, it's a start. I think it's like one of the first actual ideas I've had for PJO since Legend of Korra came out. But, be warned: it's strongly T for torture. And it's very depressing, especially at the end. Callie apparently cried when she read it over for me.

And, I'm getting very Avatarish vibes from this story. Like, I could really switch Percy and Annabeth out with Aang and Katara, and it'd work pretty well either way. But I think I like Percy and Annabeth better for this, and honestly, it was the first thing that came to mind when I was reading about Stockholm Syndrome was.

For those who don't know what Stockholm Syndrome is... well, read the definition that's below the Author's Note. I'll stop rambling so you can read it.

Thanks for being patient with me, Percy Jackson fans. I was kind of hoping some of you might be Legend of Korra fans too, but... *shrugs*

Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own PJO.

Feelings of trust or affection felt in many cases of kidnapping by a victim toward a captor.

He wakes up, bound hand and foot.

Green eyes blink furiously, and he attempts to sit up. This fails for many reasons—one of which is because he blearily realizes that his head is pounding. He retches, nothing coming up, and shuts his eyes, trying to remember what happened.

Leaving Rachel's house. Walking back to his car. Someone sneaking up on him...

Then, nothing.

"Well, well, well. Look who's finally awake." A cruel, humored voice breaks him out of his thoughts, and he looks up through his hazed vision. A feminine figure dressed in black from head to toe is approaching him.

"Who are you?" His voice comes out weaker than he expected. "Where-where am I?"

A sinister laugh fills the air. "Impatient, I see," the woman muses, kneeling down next to him. He takes back what he previously thought. His captor—or, at least, that's who he thinks she is—has exposed only the top part of her head—from her nose up. The rest of her body, however, is covered in black clothing.

"I've been told that more than once," he replies wryly.

"But to answer your questions," the woman continues, her gray eyes cold and calculating, "I'm Annabeth, your—"

"Worst nightmare?" he guesses with the sarcastic smirk he's so famous for gracing his lips. Annabeth's eyes narrow dangerously.

"I'm many things to you, Percy," she says, voice low. "I suppose your worst nightmare is one of them. Your worst enemy could be another. There are many, many clichés that could easily fit into your... ah, predicament, but what I personally was thinking..."

The woman lifts a gloved hand and touches his cheek; Percy flinches. "I was thinking," she murmurs, "that I am the last person you will ever see."

Percy is jarred from his thoughts by a bowl of water sliding over to him and splashing itself on the floor and onto him.

He raises a queer eyebrow at Annabeth, who has pulled down the scarf-like portion of her outfit so he can see her face. In the back of her mind, he finds her awfully pretty, but he pushes away these thoughts and replaces them with sarcastic, witty remarks.

"Drink up," Annabeth orders. "Can't have you dying on me before I get to have my fun."

Her words send a chill down his spine, and he swallows uneasily. "And if I refuse?"

She merely shrugs. "Suit yourself," she throws out casually. "Believe me, I can always find a way to make you drink that water. If I were you, I'd make it easier on myself and just drink the water. Though, if you want to be stupid, go right on ahead. It's actually quite amusing."

He scowls at her. "And just how am I supposed to drink it with my hands tied behind my back, Oh Wise One?" he says mockingly.

It's Annabeth's turn to scowl now. "Lap it up," she snaps. "Dogs do it all the time; you should be able to, too!"

"Ouch. That was harsh." He feigns a hurt look, inwardly smirking at her further annoyed expression. But seeing as there was no other way, and his mouth is dry, Percy positions himself in a way where he can lean down and lap up the water. The room spins as he moves, and he grimaces, leaning down close enough to the bowl so he can drink the water. The water is cool and refreshing, and is great for his parched tongue.

"Are you happy now?" He pulls away from the bowl, the lower part of his face drenched with water, dripping down onto his neck and clothes. Annabeth studies him with an unreadable expression; she looks like she's studying a complicated blueprint, rather than a human being.

After several moments of uncomfortable silence and Annabeth staring at him, the woman walks forward and snatches the bowl up with one of her (now) ungloved hands. She spares him a disgusted stare, then walks off like nothing happened.

Percy blinks as she saunters away, his green eyes following her movement. He can't help but wonder if circumstances had been different... maybe he and Annabeth could've been friends.

Maybe.

Annabeth is very skilled with knives, and Percy learns this the hard way.

She expertly slashes through most of his body—mainly in places that won't bleed as much as others, but certainly hurt just as much. Her cuts are quick and precise, and they sting and burn him to the core. His tears mix in with the droplets of blood on the ground, and the air smells of vomit—his vomit, to be precise.

"Why are you doing this?" The question comes out of his mouth unwittingly, but he has to admit to the fact that he's awfully curious as to her motives for torturing him. After all, you don't just pluck up a person from the side of the road and torture them for your own amusement.

Annabeth pauses mid-slice, and her hand tightens around her bronze—at least, that's what it looks like—knife. "I'm an assassin," she says flatly. "Someone wants you dead, so I'm doing my job. Killing you."

He swallows. "Who?" he chokes out.

Gray eyes narrow. "Why do you care?" she questions accusingly. "Bottom line is, someone in this world wants you dead, they hired me, and now I'm going to kill you. It doesn't matter who it was."

Her knife digs into his flesh, and Percy grimaces. "Then, why do this?" He tries to gesture to his bleeding body as well as he can with his bound hands. Luckily, Annabeth gets the gist of what he's trying to say. "Why not just kill me and get it over with?"

"That would be too easy." Her lips twist into a maniacal smirk. "I'm not going to make things easy for you; no, no, that's no fun. Rest assured, I will kill you eventually, but it's much more fun this way."

Percy can sense that this is the end of their conversation, as Annabeth's cuts become deeper and sloppier but also more painful. He squeezes his eyes together tightly, only hoping that he can soon fall unconscious.

His body aches when he wakes up.

It feels like he's been attacked by a rabid saber-toothed tiger, though an angry Annabeth with a knife is a close second to what that would actually feel like. He squirms on the floor uncomfortably, green eyes blinking furiously.

"Good. You're awake." Annabeth's cool voice gets his attention, and he cranes his neck as she walks towards him, holding a sandwich in one hand and a bowl of water in the other.

"You're too kind," he tells her sarcastically as the food and water land on the floor next to him. He then gets on his knees and attempts to eat the food given to him, stomach rumbling.

The woman just rolls her eyes. "You're lucky I feed you," she grumbles. "I could let you starve."

He looks up briefly before he takes a bite of the sandwich. "Then, why don't you?" he asks curiously. "And don't say it's because you'd rather have fun and prolong my suffering, because I know that people can survive for like... a month or so without food as long as they have water. So, why not just let me starve?"

Annabeth looks briefly stunned, and Percy smiles inwardly. He can't help but suspect the reason; she actually does have a heart and actually doesn't want him to starve. He really does believe that, because there's good in everyone, even sadistic, kind of pretty women who make their living by torturing and killing people.

"You should learn to stop talking," she finally says through gritted teeth. "You're in no position to be running your mouth, Seaweed Brain."

Percy does his best to look offended. "Seaweed Brain? Where on Earth did that come from?"

She stoops down to his level, looking him dead in the eye. "I know much more about you than you know, Percy Jackson," she says, a deadly look in her gray eyes. "For example, you go to Montauk Beach every summer for a week with your mother, Sally Jackson-Blofis, your step-father, Paul Blofis, your half-sister, Leah Blofis, and your best friend, Rachel Dare. You love swimming, and even was your high school swim team's captain."

Her words stun him into silence because they're true, so true. He wonders how she could know all of these things. "How—"

A smirk crosses Annabeth's features. "I know much more about you than you know," she repeats. "And if I were you, I would shut my big mouth before it gets me into even more trouble than I'm already in."

Percy doesn't even know what day it is anymore.

There's no way for him to tell, because the room he's stuck in has no windows, and he falls asleep at the strangest times. He gave up trying to keep track of how many days he'd been imprisoned the third or fourth time he woke up.

Regardless of how many days he's been here, the routine stays about the same. He wakes up, gets fed and watered like a dog, Annabeth lets him go to the bathroom(for that, he's certainly thankful), then they begin the torture. Usually, the sessions only last for an hour or so, and by the time Annabeth is done, he is exhausted and his body hurts so badly. She throws him back into the little corner where he sleeps and is left whenever she isn't with him.

Laying in his corner gives him a lot of time to think. Most of the time, he is facing the wall, and is in too much pain to move, so he merely stays still, staring blankly at the wall. Often times, he thinks of his mom—she must be so worried—or of Rachel—who is going to kick his sorry ass if he ever makes it out of this alive—or of Leah—his sweet little sister who must miss him so badly—or even of Paul—who might seem to only be worried about Percy's mom and sister but is secretly worried about his step-son. His mind wanders even to Annabeth, and Percy has come to the conclusion that someone must've burned her in the past.

Not literally, but he knows that Annabeth could've have ended up this way unless someone set her on the wrong path. No one ends up that way on their own. No, somewhere in their life, someone hurts them, someone guides them in the wrong path, and the person is left with two choices: let their experience change them for the good, or let it change them for the bad.

He doesn't hate Annabeth; honestly, he really doesn't. If anything, he pities her for having to stoop as low as murdering people in cold blood. He wishes there was something he could do to help her, but every single time he does try to get through to her, she further pushes him away. That's one thing Percy notices about his captor. She has a wall built up around her, and it's awfully difficult to even get her close to breaking down that wall.

He knows that he's in no position whatsoever to try to get Annabeth to change—she frequently reminds him of this fact with a sneer and the cold slice of her blade—but he doesn't want to give up hope. Deep down inside, there's good in everyone, and that includes Annabeth.

But as for actually finding that good...

Percy knows that he has a long way to go.

"Why do you insist on 'helping' me?" Annabeth demands suddenly. Her hand is in mid-air, poised and ready to cut through his already broken skin, and Percy looks up hazily. The room around him is spinning, and his eyes are clouded with unshed tears.

"Whaddaya mean?" he mumbles, words slurred together and almost incoherent. He tries to position himself in a manner so he can look at her more clearly, but ends up falling back down with a pained groan.

"Don't think I haven't noticed," she snaps, not caring that he's writhing on the floor, open wounds leaving a puddle of blood next to him. She's gotten sloppy over the course of his imprisonment, and no longer goes for the places that barely bleed. No; nowadays, she ruthlessly hacks away, leaving him to bleed out. "I know what you're trying to do. Your little questions about why I'm doing this. You think that I'm a confused, misunderstood little girl who needs to be rescued."

He blinks tiredly. "Don't... think that," he mutters.

And he doesn't. While he does wish that Annabeth would just stop and realize what she's doing, he knows better than to underestimate her. Annabeth is a cold, calculating, dangerous woman that isn't to be trifled with.

The woman scoffs. "Right. Then, what other motive do you have for questioning me and trying to make me see the 'error of my ways'? Or are you just doing that so I'll let you go?"

Judging from the tone of her voice, Percy presumes that she actually does want him to care enough to try and make her change, but she just doesn't want to show it. He winces as another wave of pain racks through his body, and replies, "That's not it, either."

"Then, what exactly is it?" she demands, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. With a strong yank, she pulls him to her eye level, and he lets out a yelp as his wounds are further agitated.

Sea green eyes meet a steely gray. Annabeth is breathing heavily, all worked up, and Percy just stares at her with eyes full of weariness and pity. Their faces are so close that their noses are almost touching.

"Because, Annabeth," he whispers, a bit too harshly for his liking, "I know that you're better than this."

A surprised look crosses her face; then, after a moment of silence, she lets out a disgusted cry, throwing him back onto the ground. Percy's back collides painfully with the hard ground, just as Annabeth spits in his face.

"You know nothing about me," she hisses. "Absolutely nothing."

And as she turns and stalks off, Percy can't help but wonder if she's actually right.

Death is coming. Percy can feel it.

His body hurts more than ever now, and he's lost so much blood that he's almost always dizzy now. Just the merely sight of his own blood has him retching now, and since Annabeth refuses to give him food or water, he knows he can't last much longer. His mouth is dry, and the hunger carves at his stomach, leaving him feeling empty. He's never felt so alone before.

Annabeth has long since stopped torturing him. The only times he sees are when she comes to take—more like drag, now—him to the bathroom, and even then, she veils the bottom part of her face, like she did the first time he saw her. Her hands are gloved, and she doesn't say a word to him—just pulls him to the bathroom, then back to his corner.

In a way, it's a worse torture than what she did with a knife. The days—or so it feels like—tick on, and Percy realizes he hasn't talked to anyone other than Annabeth since he was kidnapped. To make matters worse, his kidnapper now secludes herself from him, making him truly alone. He has no one to speak to, only sees Annabeth once a day, and is left in darkness half the time, all while his sanity slowly starts to crumble.

The tears have long since stopped falling, and all Percy can feel now is numbness. Whatever hope he had for Annabeth is gone, just like the witty, terrifying conversations they once had. He strangely misses them. He misses her.

The minutes pass by. The hours go on. The days drag themselves out. He's alone—so, so alone now.

He wants escape. He wants release from the pain, the loneliness, the agony. He wants it all to be gone.

He wants death.

He's tempted to beg Annabeth to kill him, but Percy won't let himself stoop down to that low of a level.

No; he will patiently wait for his end, whether it be from the lack or water, or by Annabeth's hand. Either way, he knows that this end is coming soon.

When Annabeth comes into view, the all too familiar knife in her hand, he doesn't know whether to cry from happiness, shrink away in fear, or make a witty remark like he always has.

He decides that the latter is the best option.

"Well, there's something I haven't seen in a while," he croaks because his mouth is so dry and he hasn't talked in days. Annabeth doesn't look amused; no, she actually looks almost scared. She kneels down next to him.

"I'm going to make this quick and painless," she murmurs in a hushed whisper. His heart begins racing, and he swallows. There is an understanding that passes between them, and he knows right then and there that Annabeth sees the change in him. He can see that he's ready to die, and that there's no use in prolonging his suffering any longer. In the end, she will get what she wanted—for him to have a slow, painful death.

"I'm sorry it has to end this way," Annabeth continues. She takes her knife and slices through the ropes that bind his wrists and ankles, and for the first time in weeks, his hands are free. Percy moves his arms; they're numb from lack of use, and the ropes have left harsh, red lines on his wrists. "You..." She swallows. "You're right. This-this isn't good for me, and I am better than this."

His heart soars to the clouds. After feeling so lost in despair, those words from Annabeth's mouth mean much more to him than anything else ever could. The woman grasps his hand in the hand that doesn't have the knife, and he curls his fingers tightly around hers. "T-told you." He cracks a weak grin.

A small, apprehensive smile tugs at her lips. "I'm going to give you the choice, Percy," Annabeth continues. "I can let you go. You can go find help; we're kind of in the middle of nowhere, but I know somebody is bound to find you. Or..." Her voice trails off, and she looks down.

Part of him—the part that still wants escape—urges him to take the second option. All he's wanted for the last week or so is release. He just wants the pain and suffering to end, and if he so chooses to escape, who says the emotional torture wouldn't be there? He can almost guarantee that this experience would continue to haunt him if he chose to live.

But the other part of him—the more rational side—reminds him that he has a mother and a best friend and a sister and a step-father all waiting for him back home, hoping and praying to any deity out there that he's still alive. If he lets Annabeth kill him, then he will break their hearts.

He's always been the self-sacrificing idiot...

"Come with me," he whispers, and Annabeth does a double-take. "We'll make something up. Say that my kidnapper took you as well, and we escaped together. We have no idea where he went."

"Percy... I can't." Her gray eyes shine with emotion; she wants to go with him, she really does. She wants a new beginning.

"Yes, you can," he says. "Look, we'll get rid of the knife—we can throw it far into the ocean or bury it or something—and you can come live with me and my family."

"Percy," Annabeth sighs, dropping the knife onto the floor. "No, I can't. I'll let you go, but I can't go with you. If I do, who knows who'll come after us next. I've got a lot of enemies."

"Annabeth..."

"I'm not going with you," she says firmly. She pulls him to a standing position gently, and his legs feel like jelly from lack of use. "I'm sorry it has to be like this, Percy. I really am."

She then goes into detail of how to get to the closest bit of civilization, hands him the rest of her money, and helps him trudge towards the exit.

"I'm sorry," she whispers again, just before he's going to leave. He's long since given up trying to convince her to come with him, because, honestly? She's right. It wouldn't work out. Too much evidence is stacked up against her.

"Don't be." He cups her cheek in his hand, and they stare at each other for several moments before Annabeth leans up on her tiptoes and kisses him. It's a short, chaste kiss for goodbye, and she pulls away quickly, looking at him with those sad gray eyes.

"Go," she says firmly, pulling his hand away from her cheek.

He nods at her as she steps back slowly into the building, disappearing behind the closed door. His lips still tingle from the kiss, and he can't help but want to do something more to help Annabeth. He wishes he could've saved her from what she had become, before all of this.

With a heavy heart, he sighs and tiredly begins his journey home.

Three weeks later, laying in his bed and flipping through the channels, Percy doesn't know whether or not he should be surprised to be Annabeth on TV.

The reporters speak of an infamous assassin who was finally taken down after one of her captives—who just so happened to be him—mysteriously escapes. Their guess is that one of her own comrades—or maybe the person who hired her—had her killed, but in the end, it doesn't matter because the rest of the world take breath peacefully knowing that the cunning and dangerous assassin is now dead.

Remorse fills his heart. Maybe, just maybe, it's better this way because if Annabeth had lived, she might've been caught by the police and sentenced to life in prison, or maybe even the death sentence. He still wishes there could have been some way he could've saved her—prevented her from becoming the person she did. But he knows that he did all that he could; in the end, he did save her from what she was.

At least now, she is at peace.

It's all right, just wait and see

Your string of lights is still bright to me

Oh, who you are is not where you've been

You're still an innocent

AN: Feel free to curl into a corner and cry now. Yeah, depressing. I know, I know.