A/N: Thank you for all the reviews/follows/faves on the last chapter! It really feeds me, so here's another chapter :)


Step by step, with pale moonlight as his sole guide, Percy trudged on. The road that ran next to Camp Half-Blood was bathed in darkness, but Percy could make the barest outline out—and that was enough. Percy knew traveling in the dark was risky. Monsters could smell him like he was a first-class meal, while Percy himself was practically blind.

Percy didn't care. He was not going to turn back to camp.

His fingers curled around Riptide's pen base. His eyes were aglow with fierce determination. He would slowly make his way on-foot to New York City, then fetch a taxi from the Gray Sisters. He checked the small pouch of drachmas, attached to his hip. Before hailing the infamous taxi, Percy would wait until dawn, skeptical of their services—one eye, scanning around a barely lit road? Percy would be asking for a tragedy.

Percy thought he walked for hours there. Some part of him wondered if someone would follow him. Percy was their best fighter, and this was war. Camp Half-Blood would take every warrior they could—so why didn't anyone follow him? Why didn't they care about him, like he did them?

He twirled Riptide in his fingers.

Sounds hummed around him—the sound of cracking leaves, howling wolves, and whistling wind. It created a bizarre, almost eerie symphony in Percy's tense mind. He was so on-edge that he swore he heard the sound of a small voice, playing in the background. He shook off the noises to paranoia and lack of sleep.

He was an hour into his walk. He'd made about four miles.

Then he heard it, and this time, he couldn't blame his overactive mind.

"Percy…Jackson," a loud, booming voice dragged out. Percy startled there, and Riptide was out; he directed his sword at the voice. "Oh, Percy Jackson."

From the shadows, a smirking Ares stepped out.

Percy lowered the sword, his nose crunching with disgust. Back at the meeting, he had felt a tiny, indisputable bit of temporary respect when Ares agreed with Percy's stance—but it was also Ares, god of war. Here was the most brutish, imbecilic god he knew, agreeing with his plans. The more Percy thought about it, it didn't feel like a compliment.

He wore a military uniform, still keeping his iconic dark sunglasses and slicked-back hair. He had red war paint on his cheeks that almost looked like blood. Next to him, the shadowy figure of Artemis stood—at the age of fifteen or sixteen—her long, auburn hair tied into a bun, her mouth a thin line.

Percy craned his head. "Huh. Dionysus didn't make the cut?"

Ares snorted at that. Artemis refused to smile, staring directly at Percy like he was both a fascinating specimen and also a dirty bug. Percy smiled, a little smug.

"Dionysus was drunk," said Artemis plainly. "I wish my father hadn't allowed him alcohol—he's a mess at the moment."

Percy couldn't blame Dionysus, really. He'd heard that alcohol numbed pain and offered short highs—Dionysus probably thought the war was a lost cause, drowning his tears in soapy, golden bubbles.

If being drunk wasn't such a problem in battle, Percy might've taken champagne up. Just a taste, maybe.

"You're here to…fight Kronos," Percy forced out, his eyes wide.

"Hell yeah!" Ares clapped Percy's back with another smirk. "Can't let a little demigod take the credit."

"No, we aren't here to fight Kronos. No, no, that would be foolish," Artemis clarified. She jutted her chin, as if daring Percy to contradict her. When he didn't, she instead stated, "We respect your courage, Perseus, but two gods cannot take on an army of Titans."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I need you to do something for us. Something only you can do."

Percy raised a single eyebrow. If Artemis wanted to send Percy on a quest, she could—frankly—shove it. Percy was sick of bending to the gods' whims.

Artemis sighed at Percy's expression. "You know, Perseus Jackson, even if you do fight Kronos, even if you do corner him, defeating him isn't that easy. Your mortal friend has joined with...my grandfather. And—"

Your mortal friend? "Luke," Percy blurted, interrupting her. "You think I'm friends with a traitor like that."

"That's besides the point," Artemis continued. "What I—" Artemis was subject to one of Ares's annoyed looks, and she compromised: "What we are saying is that Kronos is immortal. Riptide will do no damage to him."

Percy wrinkled his nose. Some part of him knew that, yes, but his anger was so blinding that sometimes, his common sense was often left misplaced.

"And?" he asked.

"Perseus, you know your myths, don't you?" Artemis tilted her head curiously. "How do you kill a god?"

Percy thought deeply, but his hyperactivity was distracting him. His heart beat so hard that it hurt in his chest. He stared off at the darkness, trying to…

Then he realized it. "That metal sickle. Kronos chopped his father into pieces with it."

"The sickle was made of adamant. A special metal with the power to kill immortals."

"We want you to get it," Ares added sharply.

Percy's eyes shone with renewed purpose. He could get this special metal and kill Kronos directly—they would duel, Percy would slam the adamant into Kronos's skull, and there. The reason for his suffering…the reason his mother was dead…would be gone. Sadistically, Percy dreamed of cutting Kronos into tiny pieces, watching the mighty Titan Lord crumble into tiny pieces of immortal flesh. It'd be a fun bit of irony.

"Does he still have his sickle?" Percy asked. "We can steal it—I can infiltrate the palace. I can trick him. Yes, yes, I'll trick him! I can—"

"No," Ares then said. "You're gonna get the metal from its source."

Percy stopped droning, and his eyes were dark with mistrust as he stared at these two gods. The last time he'd talked to Ares was a few years ago, and the god had called Percy a "punk" and told him "you'll die if you keep that attitude," and aside from their slight, barest courtesy for one another, Artemis was a stranger to Percy. She had told Percy he was a good man, but her mistrust of the male species ran deep.

Percy, Artemis, and Ares on a deserted road, plotting to kill their grandfather. Percy would've thought it a joke in some other universe.

"Why don't you get this metal if you're so strong?" Percy edged on.

"It's in Tartarus," said Artemis.

Percy felt himself tense. Tartarus was the gods' recycling bin where they flung their enemies—monsters, rogue cyclopes, and Titans. Monsters had escaped from Tartarus (Percy could attest to this), but it was probably still filled to the brim with the scum of earth.

Knowing it was the Greek equivalent of hell, Percy wasn't going to willingly enter Tartarus. Especially without knowing if he'd survive.

"How can I get there?" was what Percy said instead.

His brain and mouth often played this game of disconnect.

"There are two ways. You can either travel to the gates of the Underworld, as you've done when you were a child," Artemis told him.

"Or," Ares interjected, a wild glint in his eyes, "we can kill you, here and now."

Percy flexed his jaw, silent.

"If you die, you'll see my uncle Hades. Just ask him for entrance to Tartarus, grab the metal, and we'll meet you at the Doors of Death."

The Doors of Death? Percy had never heard of that, and the name wasn't exactly reassuring Percy on this whole plan.

This quest sounded like a pain. There were too many steps, and the two gods wanted him to complete it alone. He didn't have anyone to count on, and that started to slowly, agonizingly seep in.

He closed his eyes tightly.

"We can't waste time," Percy finally said. "It'll take days to get to Los Angeles."

Ares looked at Percy with almost…fond bloodthirst. "So, we get to kill him?" Percy flinched at that, but calm, graceful Artemis only eyed Percy, waiting for his consent.

"Can't you teleport me to the Underworld?" Percy asked. "There has to be a better way," he insisted. "Other than death."

Artemis cocked her head. "We can stand here thinking, Perseus, or you can use that brash courage for something."

Silence dragged out, a long moment where Percy stared at the darkness, swallowing intently. This was a choice he couldn't take back later, and he needed to think.

"You gonna make a decision, punk?" Ares asked.

Percy swallowed. "Go ahead, then. Kill me."

Artemis and Ares exchanged a glance—the knowing look that often passed between siblings. A look that Percy disregarded.

There was a silent countdown in Percy's head, ticking, ticking, ticking. Percy was so sick of this wait, and he breathed again, "Kill me! Go on!"

There was a nod exchanged, and suddenly, all Percy felt was the lick of intense, agonizing, scorching pain, all through his body. He felt everything go slack, and then…then, he felt nothing at all. It was like a shock, coursing through his body, dragging a long, feral scream out of the hero. It was only a second, but somehow, to his mind, Percy's death was slow…so slow. He felt the pressure of a trillion watts on his fragile, mortal body.

His vision was gone. His sense of feeling was gone.

Everything was gone.

Death held out his hand, and Percy hesitantly took it, pain accompanying his body like an old, estranged friend.

If Percy hadn't been so intently focused on the pain, he would've noticed the cause of his death—a long stripe of white lightning.


The judges wore white robes and grim expressions. Percy blinked, as startling silvery light flooded his vision, and he blinked up at three figures—a bearded man, a pale woman, and a younger-looking man with wisdom in his eyes.

Percy blinked again, shocked. He lifted his hands, staring at his fingers, and noticed they were bone-white. Everything around him reminded him of a black-and-white photo, the color leeched out of the surroundings. He scanned the expanse of the Underworld, and Beard frowned down at him from his podium.

"I'm dead," Percy choked out.

"That you are," the judge told him. The verbal confirmation made Percy fidgety and anxious.

He patted himself, reassured when he felt Riptide in his pocket.

"I demand you take me to Hades," said Percy, and he sounded like an angry customer.

He flicked his gaze around, noticing the long, black-stranded field of Asphodel. He thought about his mother—who was obviously in Elysium (obviously, obviously, he thought desperately)—for a brief second, then swerved his conscience to the judges.

The center judge, the woman, took out her pen, clicked, and wrote something down at Percy's words.

"Please take me to Hades," Percy said, then plastered a crooked, charming smile.

"Welcome to the Underworld," said the woman. "You were originally to stay in the waiting room, but we were instructed to pass judgement on you quickly. We are here to judge you and place you in one of three categories: the Fields of Punishment, Asphodel, or Elysium."

Percy let out a low growl, and his fingers just itched for Riptide.

Beard and Youth nodded at this. "How do you plead, Perseus Jackson?"

"Wait," said Percy, "where is my mom?"

The judges—perfectly synchronized—all tilted their heads to the side. "We're afraid that is confidential on a client-lawyer basis." Percy felt himself snort, and he wanted to viciously strangle these judges.

"Let's see," Beard continued, clicking through files. "You're a young hero—have been fighting since, ah, twelve. You are selfless and brave. You have saved many people." Beard nodded, approving.

Percy rolled his eyes skyward. He hated the way they talked to him—like he was really dead, like he would really stay in the Underworld, forever. He needed to find his uncle and go to Tartarus; this was pointless, utterly pointless. How could they seriously flip his files and try categorizing Percy into a death slot.

How was he going to kill Kronos when he was six feet under?

The younger judge took a peek at the files. "Very good, very— Wait." He pointed to the last file, and Percy felt his blood run cold. It was the newest file. "This…this does change things."

Percy was frozen. He had been about to call for Hades again, but...

He wanted to hear the answer.

Suddenly, Percy needed to know where he'd go when he really did die… Where would he be sorted?

After the war, Percy wanted to marry Annabeth, settle down a bit as a biologist, and die at a ripe, old age. When he did die, as all men did, would that small incident really tip his place in Elysium? Percy felt curious and tense.

Percy was getting a sneak peek on his death, and he was...strangely, perversely fascinated.

He inched closer. It had to be Elysium. It had to.

It had to—

"Do you or do you not take responsibility for the murder of Ethan Nakamura?" Judge Beard asked.

Percy's mouth opened, then closed. It was an easy question. Of course, Percy was responsible for Ethan's death—it was kind of hard not to know, when he'd had front-row seats to the slow seeping of blood out of Ethan's neck.

Percy had sacrificed some of his morals in the pursuit of victory, this he knew, but Percy Jackson wasn't and would never be a liar. He was strong enough to face the truth—to say the truth.

"I killed him. It was a necessary evil." Percy's eyebrows narrowed.

The judges' faces were unreadable.

"You didn't blink when you saw my file on killing the Minotaur! Or any of the other monsters! It's the same thing. I made a sacrifice."

He didn't get a single response.

"I…" Percy breathed out. "My namesake froze dozens of men into stone. He went to Elysium." Didn't he?

"Rules change, Perseus Jackson, just as civilizations change," the young judge said.

"Have you made your case?" the female judge asked.

"I'm not a murderer," Percy said in a calm, even tone. "I did what I had to. I'm a savior. I save people."

"Thank you for your testament." Beard and the other judges passed glances, and he clicked the gavel against wood. "We have come to our conclusion."

"You didn't have any witnesses!" And in the back of his head, Percy was aware of how he sounded. "Ask Annabeth—she saw me." Percy cringed at his own admission, remembering their fight. "I killed Nakumura to save us."

"We have come to our conclusion," they repeated, eerily still. "Perseus Jackson—"

Percy felt the ghost of tears at the corners of his eyelids.

"—we sentence you to the Fields of Punishment."

Percy clicked Riptide open, and with a rage so potent, he directed his sword at the judges, so angry that he was sure steam was coming out of his ears. He pointed the sword closer, practically nudging the judges' necks. "You will tell me where my mother is, you will direct me to Hades, and you will not mention this conversation ever again." His voice was deadly quiet.

The young judge tilted his head up. Percy wondered how much a threat at knifepoint was worth in the Underworld. Probably not much, considering they were already dead, but Percy took his chances—he was here, after all, because of the chances he took.

"We will take you to see Hades," said the female judge. She glanced at Riptide. "Our lord does not fancy weaponry. We will ask you to simply put the sword down—"

Percy's throat bobbed, and he tipped the sword in her direction. "No," he said frantically. "You will take me to him, sword and all."

The judge continued, "I'm afraid we can't—"

Then all of a sudden, a figure entered the corner of Percy's vision, darkness following the strolling man like a long cloak. The man eyed Percy's sword and gave Percy a simple slant of his head. "Perseus Jackson, forgive my associates." He smiled darkly. "What a…pleasure."


Percy felt like a child with their hand halfway down a cookie jar.

He stared at his uncle with ferocity, but slowly, he directed Riptide away from the panting judges, only slightly. See, Percy wasn't scared of Hades, but Percy's fate currently laid in his hands, so he didn't want to roll the dice on his survival.

Percy narrowed his eyes and said, "Your court system is rigged."

Hades's symmetrical features moved into a smile, amusement glittering in his eyes. Percy recoiled a bit, and he stood there—watching his uncle. His neutral, uncaring uncle, who would sooner let the world burn over than join Zeus.

The god's words were icy-cold, but he still smiled. It made prickles of restlessness climb up Percy's back, as he flicked Riptide into its pen form. Hades said, soft and dangerous, "To kill a boy in cold blood…with his back turned… No hero would do something so…"

Percy waited, his eyes narrowing, tensing.

"…controversial," Hades decided on.

Percy's sea-green eyes—tinted greyish in the Underworld—flicked back to Hades from the judges. "I need you to take me to Tartarus."

"Weren't you just throwing a fit at the Fields of Punishment?" Hades's eyes were as dark as onyx, pools of black that occasionally shined with silent laughter. "Tartarus is much, much worse, Jackson."

Percy smiled, all teeth now. "A murderer in hell," he said smoothly. "Isn't that the most natural thing in the world?"

Hades's lips quirked at this, gesturing for Percy to walk. With Hades ahead of him and the judges' horror-stricken expressions behind him, Percy followed. He watched the angles of shadows flicker and play when Hades moved. The expanse of Hades's eerily pale skin and dark, sunken eyes.

For a second, Percy was reminded of Nico di Angelo. The pale, somewhat angry boy had been an enigma to Percy for a while… He'd disappeared, heading off to California. Percy always assumed he'd reunited with his dad, but darting his head around, Percy saw—felt—no sign of Nico in the Underworld. But he had to be here, didn't he? Why else would a demigod go to California?

Hades walked onward, passing through the Fields of Asphodel.

Percy craned his head, watching the image of sickening souls wasting away. He remembered thinking, as a kid, that it was like waiting for a nonexistent concert, but now…it looked different to him. It was like the human version of car traffic where crowds would walk, edging towards freedom and happiness, only to realize the sea of nothingness was endless.

Percy swallowed. Even Asphodel looked frightening to him, and it wasn't even close to Tartarus. Percy thought he might prefer torture over nothingness—he could easily twist agony into self-sacrifice. With Asphodel, however….

Not so much.

Hades turned his head, his gaze assessing. Having Hades's attention was as daunting as it was when he was twelve. Both times, Percy had believed his mother was dead.

This time, he knew it to be true.

"I—" Percy tried to find his voice, but it was clogged. He tried again, more hopeful, "I—I... Where did my mother go?"

"Pardon—"

"My mother." He bit his tongue to avoid saying something that'd get him on Hades's bad side. "Sally Jackson. You might recognize her from all those years ago."

"Ah, yes, that mortal woman." Hearing his mom be brought down to "that mortal woman" was the most painful slap of the day. "She was at peace when she came, you know."

"Which field did she go to?"

Hades smiled, and it was menacing, hidden behind faux-cheerful eyes. "I can see why Poseidon fell in love with her. She was brave and strong. So much passion for a mortal."

The walk—and the greyness of Asphodel—was starting to drag, and Percy too felt himself grow jumpy. Anger tugged at Percy's heartstrings, but he ignored it.

"You will tell me where my mother is."

"Will I, now?"

Percy's eyes flashed then, but he couldn't do anything. His Celestial bronze blade was useless against a god—a god of death, of all things. Tossing Hades into Tartarus was also out of the question because that was where Percy wanted to go. He didn't have adamant yet, so torturing Hades until he revealed Sally's location was out of the books completely.

He scrunched his eyes, closed his fists, then released. Percy picked fights he could win, and this wasn't one of them.

After he cleanly sliced Kronos into a hundred million fleshy pieces, he'd come for Hades next. Probably.

They entered Hades's palace, and Percy ignored the dazzling obsidian walls and the polished bronze floors. Percy noticed two parallel silver thrones, and averted his gaze. If Percy got too attached to the wealth and beauty of his uncle's lair, his trip to Tartarus would be little more than hell.

He felt sick nostalgia at the palace—this was the place Nico, Thalia, and he had come to, just before fashioning a Stygian iron sword. This was the place he came when he was little more than a problem kid, eager to save his mom—it was funny how time flicked the switch on that story.

If only his story was one of happily-ever-afters and troubled kids with hearts of gold.

They paused at a spot where a searing hole stood in the middle of the palace's hallway. Percy squinted and muttered, "It wasn't there before. When Grover had the shoes." Percy glanced at the god of the dead, who simply offered him an uncaring shrug, and he swallowed. "So," Percy said, dragging the word, "I just...jump in."

"No, Perseus Jackson, you swim in," said Hades, sarcasm thick in his tone.

Hades's arrogance was doing no favors for Percy's tingling nerves, but Percy forcefully shoved his feelings down. He was a man with a goal, and he had to go through with it, simple as that. He stared at the hole in the metallic floor, seeing misty hazes of dark red and clay brown. It really did look like hell, the Christian version at least, and Percy had to stifle a shiver. No sane man would willingly step into Tartarus—into literal fucking hell.

Percy must be sick in the head.

He stepped forward, and Hades watched him, his dark eyes daring.

Percy walked closer and closer, his head peeking at the swirling crimson chaos, blurred out, and he put on a brave face, not for his own sake. For Hades's.

Percy was on the edge now, staring into the oblivion below.

Curls like red ribbons danced in the space below, so bright and eye-catching compared to the relative dimness of Hades and Persephone's luxurious palace. He could smell ash and something...dead. He could practically feel the monsters he'd killed in Tartarus, thrumming and waiting like patient hunters.

He turned his head, stared at Hades with gentler eyes, and said, "Tell Nico I said hi."

Hades frowned, the spark in his eyes dimming. There was curiosity in his expression, but the lord of the Underworld didn't dare reply. Percy didn't blame him; Hades probably didn't want to intrude on Percy's big hero moment.

Could it really be considered a hero moment with no one to witness it?

Later. Percy would tell his campers when they won against Kronos. He would laugh next to the fireplace, Annabeth's hand in his, camp songs in the background, and tell them of how he stepped into hell. Annabeth would laugh, poking his ribs, and tell him to stop bragging. Falling into Tartarus would just be another chapter of Percy Jackson's life, one he could get over.

His eyes burned with green fire. Percy took another breath of the palace's clean, unscented smell.

He jumped in.

And he went tumbling, tumbling, tumbling.


A/N: It was a bit of a slow chapter with some minor characters, but I just want to clarify that this fic's main focus is Percy. His surroundings, alliances, etc. will change, but this story will always be an exploration of Percy's inner turmoil and demons. Pairings won't be center stage.

It's been a while since I've read the books, so it'll be a bit different. In this story, Percy never got the curse of Achilles, so he's mortal (for now). Kronos has it. This is an AU where The Last Olympian never happened, but some things from HOO will be here.

I appreciate comments, and thanks for the read :)