Wanted (A Percy Jackson/Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. crossover)

Questions

(merry early Christmas! this is a really dialogue heavy chapter, sorry! also, it's kind of all over the place haha but i just word vomited and went with it :) enjoy :) love you guys lots!!!)

They took him to a torture chamber.

Or so it seemed. Percy's eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness, which starkly contrasted that of the brightly lit hallways they had spent minutes meandering through to find the unassuming door, tucked away in a leg of the labyrinth of a building.

The room reminded him of the Maze itself, which was obnoxiously large for the thin desk seated across the singular chair illuminated in the center, the metal of which gleamed menacingly, like the jowls of a rabid stray. The edges of the space were undetectable; shadows vignetted the area. He scoffed at the setup. The dentist's chair, clearly altered to cause as much discomfort as possible, was tacky enough; but the purposeful lack of lighting? Was this supposed to intimidate him?

He considered making the comment aloud, but his argument with Annabeth had left him drained- not to mention the anxiety coursing through his veins. For one, they took her to a lab to do who-knows-what. There would be no way for him to protect her should something happen. Of course, she was practically Einstein and could judo-flip anyone at a moment's notice (he knew this from experience, unfortunately), but it would still ease his nerves to know she was all right. Furthermore, his stomach swam with the sick feeling that Chiron's Iris-message was bound to have disastrous consequences.

Coulson frowned as he narrowed his eyes at the scruffy haired teen, who had frozen three paces into the interrogation chamber. The heavy steel door shut with a thud behind him and his escorts, the slight sliver of light the outside corridor provided scurrying out with it. The boy's bright, sea-green eyes were squinted in focus at something, although Coulson was nearly certain that that "something" was nothing more than a random point on the back wall. His face was easy to read, surprisingly; the kid's dark eyebrows were furrowed together, his lips drawn in a thin line. It was unclear if the source of the boy's evident worry was his current situation or not, but it was certainly there.

The agents who had led him in made eye contact for further instruction. The director signaled for them to get Jackson into the chair, so that they could begin their process. He wasn't sure if the entirety of that message was translatable from the simple nod he gave, but the response given sufficed.

"Jackson, chair," Agent Phillips commanded gruffly, his deep voice betraying his height. The alleged terrorist didn't react- in fact, it was although he hadn't even heard him, which was seemingly impossible. The man's booming voice bounced off the thick walls.

"Jackson. NOW."

Nothing.

"Alright," the loftier agent snapped, reaching for the captive's upper arm. Percy remained in a trance, up until the point the S.H.I.E.L.D. worker's cold fingers wrapped around his bicep. He snapped.

Without a word, the tanned teen's hand gripped the man's, ripping it off as though it burned him. The agent barely had the chance to cry out in pain before Jackson's elbow reeled back behind his head, his fingers curled into a fist instantly despite the rigidness of the brace. The previous look of uncertainty had completely dissipated in seconds, now replaced by an almost bored expression.

Percy's fist never did make contact- he never swung. His mind had clicked back into the present, away from the raging thoughts of his girlfriend and home. But, despite this, his jumpiness caused the few men and women that scarcely filled the room to leap to action in an attempt to contain him.

"Sorry," he mumbled to his almost-victim before a rather large man sporting a light stubble grabbed the arm he was lowering and launched him backwards without a second thought, which was impressive considering Jackson weighed quite a bit, being as built and tall as he was. His mass offered no resistance against the force. An involuntary yelp escaped the teen's lips when his back slammed against the arm of the metal chair, in addition to a bark of disapproval from Director Coulson; the act had been the definition of a late hit. An agent standing next to Coulson winced audibly as their prisoner hit the floor.