Alternatively

Ubiquitous (v.)

It wasn't uncommon for information to be fed through dreams. It was one reason he had reacted so strongly to the "Oh my God Annabeth is drenched in blood" nightmare. There was typically someone or something trying to explain something and there generally wasn't any difficulty separating reality from actual dreams. He could smell, he could see, he could feel.

Oh, he could feel.

Phantom aches in his arms brought him to instantly, dreadful burns ghosting across his skin. Silver. Whoever eyes he was looking through was restrained by silver chains. He couldn't see very far before him, but the stench of rotting fish was overwhelming. Snarls and snaps were muffled, distant but way too close for comfort. Somewhere behind him, a metal door creaked open and clicked shut shortly after. He felt his host's heart race as languid footsteps drew near.

"Apologies for the less than desirable conditions," an irritatingly familiar voice called. "We aren't exactly at our height of glory, here. Plus, it makes all of this easier."

Percy's host remained silent.

"And you get the chains, right? Can't have you running off and defeating the whole purpose of your presence."

Anger bubbled across the link and he could feel his own teeth sharpening.

A man passed in front of their vision before kneeling patronizingly to level, a scarred smirk quirking. "Won't be long now, he'll rage in here soon enough."

Percy jolted awake snarling, the blanket around him torn to shreds. Still, he held out a delusional hope that maybe, for once in his life, his instincts were wrong.  He steadied his breathing, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. The barest hint of sunlight still seeped through his curtains, indicating he had slept through the entire day again. He should have reported to Chiron instead of slipping into a coma. He should have called his mother like he promised. He should have stayed with Annabeth.

He inhaled sharply, fumbling for his phone and frowning at the 20 missed calls that cluttered the screen. They were all from the same number, a local one almost identical to Annabeth's. Instead of listening through the whole thing, he simply called back and was shocked that it was answered at the second ring.

"Percy!"

It took him a minute to recognize the voice. "Bobby? How did you get my-"

"She's gone."

If there was anything that could blur time, it was that fear filled phrase. He doesn't remember tearing from his apartment, he doesn't recall Grover telling him to calm down because surely that happened, he doesn't recollect scouring Annabeth's place for any clues or absently assuring her brothers that yes, everything was going to be okay and to trust his promise to get her back. He mainly followed the intense tugging in his gut, San Fransisco alight in his white hot rage. Luke had her. Luke was using her, just as he dreaded.

Luke was going to pay.

You're bleeding through your shirt.

Percy ignored Grover but didn't shut him down, glaring down the scarcely lit alley marked by his own blood. They wanted him, well, they were going to get him. Though the adrenaline  rushing in his veins blocked any pain that should have been crippling, he knew it was going to be difficult barging into Kronos's presumable base in his state. He needed a plan. 

You should wait for back up.

The incessant pulling at his gut refused to let him take such reasonable advice. Creeping around the back alleys with a suspicious lack of guards, Percy let his nose and heart guide him through the mangled warehouse maze.  Everything screamed trap, from the dim lights to the subtle drip of water from rusted pipes. His shirt was dampening with sweat and blood and he could feel the tearing pain wriggle back into consciousness, but he simply took to limping his way along the walls. Of course he went into the most decrepit building there was, and of course the only light was filtered from clouded skylights. He could hear the snarls from his dream, new weres not used to the changes. Percy could smell her. Not her blood, thankfully, but her fear and anger. It coiled through the warehouse, yanking him to the one door propped open.