Aquaman? Whoops, Wrong Universe: A Percy Jackson Marvel Crossover

Chapter 26: Percy

TW for panic attack and general suffering lol 💀

One week ago

Riptide screamed. It was a loud, rasping, and agonizing scream. Every particle of his body was on fire, and he felt himself spasming from the pain. The hurt penetrated every inch of him. He desperately wanted it to go away. He would do anything to make it stop. Anything.

The boy wanted to beg for his life, but he couldn't even make a sound. He gasped for breath, lungs scratching and itching from the painful screams coming from his mouth. 

Please please please make it stop...

Why did it have to hurt so bad? It felt like hundreds of blisters, angry and red, were forming over his skin. It felt worse than anything he had ever felt before, yet also strangely... gratifying? Riptide felt unbelievably helpless. He hated that feeling.

Why had he gotten into the machine? 

Because you were ordered to.

Should he be okay with that? That he did everything on a whim for the people he worked for? Or was this normal behavior? The way things were supposed to be?

Over the past week, he had been training non-stop, rigorously. It was hard, and often ended with twenty more bruises and a dozen more cuts on his person. But in a way, it was satisfying. He had been getting stronger. More agile. More cunning. 

More exhausted.

But apparently, it was never good enough for HYDRA. He always needed to be stronger, faster, better. No matter how hard he tried—no matter how much he attempted to obey without question, he wasn't good enough. So, he pushed himself harder and harder and harder until he was on the verge of collapse. He felt like it was the only thing to do. He felt required to do everything as best as he could. Even if it killed him.

He fought increasingly more skilled opponents, but he beat each one without much worry. Swordplay came naturally to Riptide, unlike shooting a gun. Pierce had tried to teach him, but Riptide was hopeless at it, much to the man's displeasure. Riptide had felt admonished and embarrassed that he couldn't wield a simple handgun. It shouldn't have been hard, in reality. He had seen how the man with the metal arm was an expert sharpshooter.

Well, he had really only seen him in the firing range four times, on four consecutive days. He was always there, at the same time each morning. Then, the fifth day of Riptide's stay at the new complex came, and... he was gone. Nowhere to be found.

Yesterday, Riptide had heard strange whispers around the complex he had been moved to. He had no idea where he really was, but he wasn't very keen on finding out, either. He caught snippets of conversations about how they were going to "use the serum" on him. The agent didn't know what that meant, but a part of him was scared to find out. Nevertheless, he kept fighting that day, honing his skills from sunrise to sunset. 

Then, today, he had been called into the room where he had first woken up in. There was a different machine in the back—an equally crude metal contraption that looked suspiciously like a coffin. A small window near where the face would be was visible.

"Get in," a guard had said coldly as the door to it swung open. "Take your shirt off."

Riptide had looked uneasily at the man, but climbed in nonetheless after ripping off his plain white shirt and Kevlar vest. The air was cold, but not colder than the actual machine. The moment the door closed, the calmness that had been present for his remembered life was replaced with a sense of  claustrophobic panic. It was dark. Too dark. The singular grimy window didn't let any light in.