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Reyna's hands were handcuffed to her back as she walked out, escorted by guards. Her head was hung low, her feet dragging against the floor slowly. She'd been captured only hours before, and her death was going to be used for their entertainment.

The place was like an exact replica of a colosseum, but it had been designed by a daughter of Athena– so of course it was improvised. It was made of concrete and tuff, lined with gleaming silver, and speckles of gold here and there. The seating was much more comfortable than an actual colosseum, and it was structured so that everyone would have a clear sight of the battle, no matter how tall the creature sitting in front would be. And the space for battling itself was at least ten times bigger– they wanted to see her run away. Monsters were in their seats, a cacophony of their cheering filling the air. On the podium at the centre of the narrower side of the place, two people– or traitors, rather–sat, eagerly conversing with each other. Reyna watched as Annabeth laughed at something Percy said, pulling him closer to her before placing her mouth on his.

A part of Reyna noticed how there was something darker under the romantic action, how both of them didn't quite go together the way they used to. She guessed that it was so because slaughtering demigods didn't exactly help evoke someone's romantic side. She looked across the whole colosseum, silently thinking of what was going to happen to her. Monsters, mortals, and– it made her want to puke– demigods– who, unlike the mortals, knew this was real slaughter, not an act– were chatting and shouting among each other rapidly, chaotically.

"Reyna Avila Ramirez Arellano!" The voice of Annabeth Chase rang through the arena, and all the monsters, mortals, and demigods, immediately obeyed. Her eyes glinted, and the beginnings of a victorious smile took upon her face, "Oh, how time changes so many things. Once upon a time, you were a praetor. You debated against having war with greeks. You thought that Octavian wouldn't attack camp– which was completely moronic, may I add. Now here you are, at my mercy. And you will receive that, in a way– you get to visit the rest of your little Roman friends." At the last few words, her lips twisted into a baleful smirk.

If someone was watching closely, they would have noticed the way Reyna's eyes swirled with rage, a wild rage, which was quite unlike her.

"I must add, though, you did quite an excellent job hiding."

Two years ago, Reyna would have never considered hiding, and if she did, the shame would have weighed on her forever. But the present was not two years ago. The only shame she had was because she couldn't save her people. Sure, she'd hid many of them in concealed places, where it would be next to impossible for them to be found, but the masses of them had gotten slaughtered in the very same place she stood. That was what made her ashamed, not hiding. She'd done what was needed to survive.

Annabeth continued, "Which is why, we've decided to give you a special treatment."

Reyna's gaze shifted to lock with Percy's. She had thought that he would still have some compassion, show at least a little discomfort from the scene, but he didn't. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The sea coloured eyes she saw had a nil resemblance to the Percy she knew. The Percy she knew would look conflicted at the very least. Instead, he smiled. A ghostly smile, one that smiled at blood, a smile that made his features seem sharper, more vicious, wicked. It was a smile that smiled at dead bodies and suffering, and it was the smile he was smiling as he was going to watch her fight and run until she died.

A guard came, digging keys out of her pocket, and uncuffed her, the manacles falling off her wrists with a click.

Annabeth smiled, the way a host of a competition would. It was easy to tell that she wasn't necessarily entertained by watching as she fought and died, and would much rather be watching a movie, away from all the tartarus-spawns, but she didn't seem fazed by it either. "Collect a weapon and–"

Her sentence was cut short when Reyna twisted the guard's hand, making the woman cry out, before another guard came running at her. Using the second guard's running momentum, she grabbed his feet, throwing him in the air and kicked the first guard in the stomach, and both of them fell to the ground, too dazed to move.

Annabeth's eyes darkened to a glare. Percy, in contrast, had a devilish expression taken upon him, his head tilting to the side ever so slightly and his mouth twitching upwards into a vile smirk as he lounged on his seat. When he did so, like when he smiled earlier, his features sharpened, and he didn't seem like anyone who could have ever been humane, forget about having loyalty as his fatal flaw. He gestured for Annabeth to not do anything with a slight movement of his palm, which was resting on an armrest. The monsters looked at Percy, as if to ask if that was meant to happen, and he just nodded, making them enthusiastically jeer and catcall at her.

She tried to ignore the action, and instead crouched down and took all of the weapons out of the unconscious guard's belt. They gathered in a pile, and she rummaged through them, deciding to use a pistol–which were easy to kill demigods with– when she heard howls.

Her head shot towards the source of the sound, dread building inside her and freezing her core. That's when she realised what Annabeth had meant by 'special treatment'. Lycanthropes. A lot of them, several dozen at least.

Shit.

She could feel her heartbeat spiking up as she dropped the pistol and rummaged through the pile of weapons again, grateful when she saw a glint of silver. Grabbing the pocketknife by the blade, she got up and took a second to stare at the werewolves and think of possible courses of action.

Run.

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Annabeth observed Reyna and noticed that she'd lost all the grace and composure she used to have. She could hear the discord of monsters catcalling, laughing, and making other weird sounds that were probably supposed to be cheers. Cheers for the praetor's death.

She herself hadn't thought she'd enjoy it, for the Reyna she knew had been strong, and might have been stronger after 2 years. But she wasn't, and for the first time, Annabeth was delighted to be wrong. And she had to admit that it was quite entertaining to watch Reyna– an ex-praetor, who once seemed so omnipotent– looking so panicked and wild and desperate. The silver knife– which was barely more than 2 inches– glinted in her hand as she ran as fast as her legs would take her– faster, even. So desperate to get away from the Lycanthropes.

There were thirty eight werewolves, including Lycaon. Initially, she'd thought that they might even be defeated, but now it was quite obvious that they wouldn't be. And, if they were defeated... Then even she wouldn't like what was next for Reyna, which would be her own utmost rage.

The colosseum was much bigger than an average one, designed to allow people to run. Which was quite useless: they'd just be trapped. Reyna was not following her wits, and was just running.

Most of the Romans had not run. They had cussed at the crowd, shouted out speeches, fearlessly laughed, and chanted for the legion. A lot of them had been much better fighters than she or Percy expected. But none of them survived, except for two.

Those two had been Frank Zhang and Hazel Levesque. For Frank, he'd simply had to face the wrath of the monsters in the crowd: those reckless enough to fight. Half of them had been sent back to their place in hell. In the end, Percy had laughed, congratulated him. And then boiled his blood. Until his body gave up, allowing death to consume him.

As for Hazel... she'd gotten it less pleasant. She was too powerful. Her control over the mist, ability to control metal, opening tunnels, it had fooled everyone. Even Percy. Even her. Maybe that's when she'd truly become so mad at Hazel. And, oh, she had gotten her revenge: a satisfying one.

Annabeth flicked her hand, and the celestial bronze spears which monsters had been holding– to cheer, apparently– were yanked out of their hands, and tumbled down. The dozen monsters that had lost their spears looked dismayed. The rest didn't care.

A smile edged at her face.

Oh dear Hazel... What have you done?

The thought was mocking, no sympathy attached.

She leaned her head on Percy's shoulder as she watched Reyna. In response, Percy's hand snaked itself around her waist.

Even though she'd been entertained by many of the deaths too, she didn't want to see Percy's face. The expression was... She didn't know. But, for some reason, the bloodlust hiding behind that composed face sent her crazy. It made her feel like she was back in Camp Half-Blood, locked in the Poseidon cabin, being forced to choose a side. She'd feel like something dear to her had been ripped away. No, not ripped away, like she'd ripped it away from herself, broken it. And she wanted it back.

What was it? She didn't know. It wasn't the demigods, she'd convinced herself long ago. Maybe it was the way Percy's eyebrows used to knit together in confusion, the way he'd defensively stand in front of those he loved. The way he'd try to come up with a rebuttal for 'seaweed brain'.

And a part of Annabeth knew, however she tried to push it away. She missed his loyalty, his concern which always shone through his face, the sheepish grins, the urge in him to protect. To protect her. He still did, but it was a different way. The calm, composed way, the simple commanding of soldiers, the relaxed stature and unshown worry that day when she'd been trapped in that white room by Hazel Levesque.

But one cheeky joke from his mouth, and she'd throw all of those thoughts out the window. Because while she'd have doubts at times, she loved Percy. And she loved the now Percy, the Percy who could quite literally make the whole world remember her name. The Percy who had given her everything she'd ever wanted. The Percy who would never go away from her again, because there was nothing to fear anymore.

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Clarisse La Rue was not dead. Lost an arm, an ear, a finger on the second arm, and several other body parts, but hell could rise and she would still not die. She had killed every single person and monster who had dared to lay a finger on her, thinking they could destroy her. Even their ashes had been trapped in jars, boxes, ziplocks, and anything she could find to extend the time before their reformation.

She had tricked the guards outside into thinking she was dead, quite painfully. There had been a box in her cell, with To: Camp Half-Blood scribbled on the top. She knew exactly what had been in there. Four fingers from her right hand, one from her left hand, her cut-off hair– which she'd found senseless and creepy– and chips of protruding bone. She slid open the door so that there was just enough space to push it out. That made guards assume that they were finally killing her. Then came the painful part: the evidence of how she'd died. Clarisse had cut off her right arm– also to get rid of her chains– and burned it, so that they would think she was burned. She didn't take any weapons, and left, letting her blood pool into her hand and clothes, but not fall to the ground– that would make it obvious that she escaped.

She'd taped the bladed edges of arrows to that hand, and over the course of a long time, she was used to it. They were all metallic colours– silver, celestial bronze, imperial gold– and were arranged artistically, all of them forming one clawed hand. A lot of times, it was useful, especially once she got used to it. On her other hand, she'd managed to operate it without a ring finger– not like she was ever going to wear a ring. It was just one finger missing, only affected her sword wielding skills a bit, and she got used to it quickly.

She was standing in the ruins of a city. Bunches people stayed in bomb-proof shelters, and in the distance she could make out people lining up for food. The small remnants of her conscience told her not to invite trouble for those people. So she swiftly turned around, and walked on, the sword on her right hand dragging in the ground, making a scratching noise.

Clarisse only stopped when she noticed a few one-eyed creatures, looking the other way. She pulled the black silicone resting on her head downwards, and it covered her whole face except for her eyes. It was the only way to stay 'dead'. One cyclops noticed her, and turned around. The rest followed suit. Their eyes gleamed, and she could imagine them screaming 'more demigod blood!'.

She didn't waste time. A flash, and her sword was swinging and severed the first cyclops from neck to hip. She turned around and her arrow-hand stabbed into the next monster, and she threw her sword towards the other three who were standing in a diagonal line, confused and unable to process what was happening.

That was it. All that remained was dust. She imagined them reporting 'demigod in mask', like so many others had.

We turned around and saw her. Then, I didn't even know what was happening and I was gone, back to tartarus. So many of them had said the same things. She knew that from the dreams that stole her sleep.

It made her smile to know that they were probably desperate to find her. And they always did, before simply getting sent back to where they belonged: goddamned hell.

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Reyna ran, the wind blowing her hair into her face. She didn't glance back, because she knew, for sure, the werewolves would be following her. She had her silver pocket knife, but that could only do so much damage. Her ribs ached and her legs burned, but she didn't dare slow down. She needed to come up with something, fast. Or else she'd be at mercy of luck, and luck had always failed her. She wasn't going to give it another chance, just to make it worse. It was a fact: luck only existed for those with power.

Eventually, she couldn't stop herself and glanced back, towards the podium. Her gaze fixed itself on a certain demigod– a blonde daughter of Athena, a traitor to Olympus. Her grey eyes held a sadistic glee and showed no care.

Reyna then glanced at the wolves, who were dangerously close. Then she sprinted away, surprising herself by being even faster than before. Her body threatened to give out at any moment, but she forced herself to keep running.

She heard a snarl, and a blur of grey launched itself into the air towards her.

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Annabeth smiled. It was the end. She would not make it. She'd seen how weak Reyna had become, there was no way she'd counter the attack.

Then she saw what happened next, and her smile dropped.

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Reyna moved like lightning. She turned around swiftly and swung her knife, and it cut through the werewolf, splitting it into two. A howl of pain pierced the air, and golden dust fell over her.

The whole arena silenced. Percy's amused look was replaced with a slight frown. Even the Lycanthropes stopped in their tracks. Reyna herself wasn't oblivious: she knew that splitting a werewolf in two with a 2-inch blade wasn't a small deal.

She couldn't stop the smile from spreading onto her face, "No, Annabeth Chase, I have not grown weaker in these two years. I have only gotten stronger."

Three wolves lunged, and she sidestepped, stabbed, kicked, slashed, rolled, and stabbed again.

"And Perseus Jackson? You wanted my death, didn't you? Have fun burning a picture of me later."

And she was swift, unstopping, as she fought against the monsters.

"Don't forget curses to my name too."

She sidestepped attacks, and her knife was at the Lycaon's throat. She looked up to see Percy's face, which was a mix of expressions.

"Because no matter what you try, and what you do," She plunged the knife into the werewolf's throat, ignoring the howl as she swung her knife behind her back, where it met a cyclops who had jumped out of the arena.

"I'll be gone."

----

when the monsters come for blood
they want to see fear like a flood.
but when they come she turns unkind,
run, run, run, because she won't leave you alive.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

So... In a way, if you look at it, it's kind of cringey. But not gonna lie, I am kinda proud of this chapter. Next chapter is gonna cover everyone else who hasn't been mentioned yet, maybe repeat for someone else [I haven't exactly decided yet]. 

Also, I just feel the need to describe Clarisse's appearance canonically. Because, like 3 hours ago, I realised that I'd been imagining her the wrong way. Apparently, her hair colour is not dark brown [facepalming at my own stupidity]. It's a pale brown - blond-ish colour, and, in this fanfic, is in a boy cut [remember the part where the creep-os chopped off her hair?]. I feel kinda sad for her in this fanfic ngl, like, she cut off a hand– that's a little extreme of me, I know. 

And if it wasn't clear, Reyna had basically been acting weak. Don't ask me why, ask her. 

Anyway, I hoped you liked this chapter! 

END OF AUTHOR'S NOTE

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