Sixty seconds.

Percy had sixty seconds to live. He was stumbling through the forests towards camp, his feet betraying his desires and tripping him up as his body grew number and number. A dull ache started from his leg, where he was bitten, before spreading like a wildfire.

Luke had betrayed camp. Betrayed him. The pit scorpion had been summoned by Luke, and attempted to kill Percy. He tried to back up, to escape- to no use. It bit him right in the leg, and now he was running for his life, a life he might not be able to save.

Percy Jackson was a hero, now reduced to a damsel in distress.