Two heroes, alike in dignity, fell into Tartarus.

The first hero clutched his elbows with his hands. He was alone, falling into hell.

He had dark hair and eyes of sea glass, and when he tumbled into Tartarus, he didn't scream, even as wild heat latched out on his skin. An echoing cacophony of wind shrieked through his ears, and he reached his arms out in the pit, trying to stop the air whistling around him. He could see the death god's glittering eyes for a second—before the wind swiped his head back down. The temperature started to yo-yo between extremes. It was like mortal medicine, the hero thought, both feverishly hot and icy cold.

The second hero tumbled into Tartarus head-first, and when he did, he let out a blood-curdling scream. Tears fell down his face, tumbling across his cheeks, as the darkness greeted him. It was agony—nothing like he had ever felt before. This hero never thought he was pampered—he'd lived life on the edge, one step away from death—but he had never felt such an exquisite brand of pain.

Two heroes fell into Tartarus at the exact same time. With the same silly goals. Some would call it a coincidence; others would insist it was the Fates' doing. Either way, one thing was for sure—

Two heroes fell into hell.

One made it out.


Descending into Tartarus was like falling from grace. He felt like an angel butt-kicked down to hell, watching as everything tumbled in his background. Everything was sticky and tense and repelling, and Percy closed his eyes, allowing himself to just fall. Percy separated the physical sensation of Tartarus from his conscience—it made the fall more bearable, but only slightly.

He cradled himself as he fell, as if he was some sort of fearful child, hiding from the monsters under his bed.

It was the exact same situation, really. Except the monsters were real, and Percy wasn't in a bedroom. He was falling into hell at a contradicting speed that both felt too fast and too slow.

Then his memories just...started up, like the fall was revving up an automatic machine.

As seconds tipped into minutes, oriented into hours, and blended into days, Percy saw his life flash before his eyes, a collection of shaky memories.

Percy lost count of the seconds, as they slipped between his fingers like grains of sand. Percy could at least attest to one thing on his fall down: his memories flashed before him. They were sweet as powdered sugar, the adventures and quests when he was a child...when he was a teenager...when he was young and happy and—

The red ground below started getting closer and closer. Percy snapped himself out of his daze and made sure to protect his head with his arms. He tried searching for a soft place to land, but it was too late.

He made impact.

Percy hit the ground with a bang, and he tripped over, ending up on his stomach. Everything about Tartarus was wrong: the flaming air that filled his heaving lungs, the repugnant smell of burning trash, the gravelly ground. He looked around, and hell was just as he imagined with slopes of blood-red and brownish canyons, just as dark, eerie rivers paved their way through Tartarus.

Percy brought himself up, ignoring the red scratches that dotted up and down his body. If Percy ignored his weaknesses, he would be stronger...much stronger. Pain tickled every part of his body.

You've felt the electrifying pain of death. This is nothing compared to that.

And so he moved. He pressed a hand above his head, trying to block out the glare of red, looking around for adamant. Somehow, Percy thought a big, scarily powerful metal would be easier to find. Instead, all he saw was red, red, red.

He wiped the blood from his jaw. It seemed to mock him in that one color.

He started to walk, tripping over a few times, trying to get a hang of the pain. He felt like he was dying.

You can't die here, he tried reassuring himself. This was Tartarus—this was the farthest pit of the Underworld. Where would Percy go if he "died"?

The corner of his lip twitched in amusement. It was ironic. Being dead cemented one's immortality.

Percy worked faster, pushing his body as much as humanly possible. He could hear the sound of rivers pulsing and the sound of echoing growls. The longer he stayed in one place, the more he would look like monster chow. Monsters would easily classify Percy as a newcomer in their midst—he needed to move and move quick.

His skin felt like it was peeling off him, and acid-like air made it difficult to breathe. He was thirsty, practically salivating for anything. He cursed when he checked the things in his backpack. He didn't even have so much as a granola bar.

Before his death, Percy had known very little about Tartarus, but with just the sensation alone, he felt like he could wax angry poetry at the sheer pain of Tartarus. It was indescribable, unspeakable.

Inhumane, even.

Trying to walk quietly through hell was impossible. It was kind of like walking down a set of stairs where every step was the creaky step. Percy gave up, trusting the rustling and calls of the damned would cover up his footsteps.

It was impossible to tell how long Percy walked. Time was a forgotten concept in Tartarus. However, a hundred or so yards into Tartarus, Percy started hearing a deep, bellowing voice.

"Perseus Jackson," a voice murmured, like his name was both holy law and the devil's curse. "We meet again."

Percy was getting antsy because although he'd been hearing swirling, whispering noises for the better part of his journey, this was…different. This felt personal, this sounded like someone he knew. It was deep, but there was a honeyed quality to it that massaged Percy's eardrums.

"What—who are you?" Percy blurted.

Percy didn't even reach for Riptide this time, allowing himself to freeze and listen. He hid behind a hill of red rock, in case the voice was attached to a body.

Gods forbid the voice belonged to a humanoid monster—Percy had killed too many of those.

"Is that how you embrace family, Percy?" The voice chuckled. "I must admit that I'm disappointed." The masculine, entertained voice had a rumble that followed his tone like a loyal guard.

Percy let out a caw of laughter. Sure, here Percy was, bleeding himself dry in this hell, and the creepy voice was disappointed. How quaint. Percy was embarrassed to admit it'd taken time for the voice's first question to sink in, and when it did, Percy's eyes bulged in their sockets.

"Family?" he prodded.

A part of his brain told him: Everyone in Greek mythology is related. That isn't anything earth-shattering. But which monster was smart enough, sentient even, to realize that?

The being laughed, and it was equal parts scorn and amusement.

The hair on Percy's back tickled in warning.

Who was…

Percy's thoughts halted abruptly, though, as the voice faded off into nothingness, the hum leaving too, and a couple new, high-pitched voices rang out. A shrill, superficially sweet voice chatted away. Percy's attention snapped away from his "family member," as he watched as two monsters walked in tandem.

"Mother Earth is rising…duh," said a feminine voice, and she sounded like she was smirking triumphantly. "Soon, after Kronos, we'll stamp the gods out. It'll be so fun."

Percy's ears perked at this news, but for the most part, he was stuck in the dark… Who was Mother Earth? Demeter? Some sort of grain goddess? Why would this Mother Earth figure join Kronos?

Percy moved slightly, attempting to piece the speaker and their statement, and as he did, he saw flashes of a cheerleader uniform and red eyes and—

It was Kelli. The empousa from Goode.

Just Percy's brilliant, goddamn luck.

"We can, like, get our revenge now," the other, green-eyed empousa told Kelli. "It'll be awesome!"

The two monsters had shed the majority of their lovely human disguises, and Percy pieced scarlet-red eyes, smeared with heavy dark eyeliner, and red-orange flames for hair. Kelli and Tammi were no longer hidden behind the Mist, and Percy saw their legs: one donkey leg, one bronze leg. In their true home, they resembled what they really were.

Monsters.

Percy stepped closer, slowing his breath to prevent the sound from dragging. He forced the ache of his lungs and chest down, trying to hear what they were saying.

"—Mother Earth is totally awesome—"

"—that Luke boy—"

"—the new kid, too—"

"—ew, heroes? Get a grip, Tammi!—"

That was the extent of the conversations from Percy's angle, and he softly cursed. He waited quietly, pressing his ears closer, closer, closer.

"Not so clever are you now, Perseus Jackson?" the voice said mockingly, and he sounded like he was smirking. "You're on death's doors, and all you can do is think of petty gossip."

Percy didn't so much as flinch. He watched Kelli and Tammi, desiring a reaction—they'd obviously heard the voice, right? But the empousai chatted away—saying something about heroes—completely ignoring the voice.

Hearing things that weren't really there…wasn't that a sign of insanity? Percy wasn't seriously going insane, was he? That would be inconvenient.

The voice purred, "How charming, little hero."

Somehow, Percy was sure his insane alter-ego wouldn't give him a nickname as patronizing as "little hero."

That was a bit on the nose.

He whispered, "Who are you? And how am I 'on death's doors'? I'm already dead," and the wind carried his breath into Tartarus's expanse. Percy's almost-inaudible voice meshed into the collection of chaotic noises purgatory provided.

"Tartarus will drain you. Your pathetic mortal body will not be able to handle the temperature," he told Percy. "You must find the River Phlegethon, the river of fire, and drink from its contents."

Percy couldn't help but scoff, thinking, Fat chance. He might've agreed to dying and stepped into hell willingly, but this was out of the question. Percy wasn't naïve enough to drink from a fire river, no matter how thirsty he was.

He tried categorizing the voice between friend or foe, and he was leaning towards foe. From the dark, slippery tone and the family comment (Gods knew how messed up the Greek family tree was) and asking him to drink fire? Percy snorted in disbelief—if he wanted to kill his enemy, he wouldn't tell them to do something so…obvious. That was just lazy.

A swing of his sword was easily the more honorable way to go.

"You didn't answer my first question," Percy said in an accusing tone.

"You could call me a friend of a friend."

Depressingly, Percy wanted to say something along the lines of "I have no friends." It would be meant as self-deprecating humor, but now…with everything that had happened, it hurt. It really hurt, and Percy didn't know why.

The "friend of a friend" inexplicably left again, draining out like rainwater on a roof. Percy cursed. Violently and in ancient Greek. His tongue was burning from the heat, and when he talked, it was like sandpaper scraping the insides of his throat.

So Percy stopped cursing and threw a punch at an unsightly piece of greyish rock. It barely cracked—Percy wasn't some god—and he only let out another vulgar string of curses.

They were quiet curses, but curses all the same.

The desert-like expanse of Tartarus looked like it stretched forever, and with five intersecting rivers, Percy was staring at a maze… A subtler maze from the Labyrinth, one frozen in this hellish state. He scanned around, until his eyes found a river the color of red and orange, lava oozing out.

Liquid, Percy thought pettily, hopefully. Even the thought of water—his father's domain, his domain—made Percy's Adam apple bob in desire… Even if it was an ugly color, it was a river—there had to be water in there somewhere, right?

Percy ran forward, ignoring the growing pain…everywhere.

He stuck out his hand, trying to summon water into his hands. Percy's water powers were strong—very strong, considering his humble beginnings—but summoning hell-water was definitely pushing Percy's brittle limits. He was hungry, he was thirsty, and his body was quaking under the thick pressure of air. And somehow, somewhat arrogantly, Percy thought he could summon a hurricane out of liquid fire.

He leaned over the edge, placing his hand an inch away from the rolling ruby waves. He reached closer, closed his eyes, and tried to…control the water. Maybe separate it enough, so he could get some water.

Come here, water, he thought, Riptide rattling in his sheathe as he propped himself forward. Come here.

"The fact you think you can control hell's water is pathetic."

Percy was somehow even more determined after that. He tried to ease the water into stillness.

"The water runs with Tartarus's lifeline. You cannot stop it."

He furrowed his brow.

"Drink the water, and forget about this endeavor. You may be strong, Perseus Jackson, but you lack common sense."

Percy would show him "common sense," as soon as he froze the water, or did something to the water. He tried to imagine the molecules of water in Tartarus, but despite Tartarus's humidity, Percy couldn't feel a lick of water.

What a joke. A son of Poseidon without water. In Tartarus of all places.

Percy probably sat there for hours, trying to tame the River Phlegethon, but it was an unbridled force of nature. Uncontrolled, continuous, determined.

"Be a good hero, and drink," said the voice again, hours after, and Percy shivered.

Had the monster been watching him for all that time?

Watching Percy fail, fail, fail and try, try, try. And rinse and repeat for hours. Hell, Percy didn't even know if it was hours. It could've been days for all he knew.

He felt himself reluctantly caving in…because he was tired, and everything hurt, and if he wanted to be in his right mind when he hunted for adamant, he needed to drink. Maybe Percy had been being stupid—all those hours wasted on a hopeless endeavor.

He tried one last time.

The water didn't so much as falter.

Then Percy swallowed the bile in his throat, stared at the burning sky like it was the voice himself, and hesitantly took the fire into his hands. Percy didn't admit defeat to the voice. Instead, he indulged.


It tasted like torture.

It felt like pain.

It was...

Exhilarating.


Interlude

Annabeth used to have a handle on life.

And then it broke.

And she was plunged into the abyss below.

She and Percy had never dated. They stayed in that spot where they'd both made eyes at each other but had never talked about anything like their feelings. They stuck to playful jabs and monster battles. Yet, their latest conversation reminded her of a break-up.

Annabeth was conflicted. For the longest time, she hadn't been conflicted about Percy. This was Percy, and she trusted him. With her life, with the world.

Percy with his windblown black hair and his sinless smile. With his selflessness, his kindness. He was beautiful...he was everything Annabeth needed. Lover or not, Percy was a constant—he was there with a hand on her shoulder, tossing her a playful smile, always telling her she wasn't alone. Percy was there at her worst moments. Now though, it was like the real Percy was there at none of her moments.

She laid on her bunk, staring up at the ceiling. Malcolm and her other siblings were snoring away, but Annabeth was having trouble sleeping. She was irritated; she was thinking of their fight.

Maybe Annabeth was being selfish. Entitled. Rude.

Percy had lost his mom. He'd been bent back and forth, sent off to battles like he was a military soldier. Along the way, Percy started believing he was only that: a piece of flesh that could kill. And that did things to Percy.

But Annabeth had her own tragedies. Her life hadn't been all "peaches and cream," as Percy had so eloquently put it. She'd been toughened as a child, unwanted, unloved. She'd never gone out of her way to be as sickening as Percy had been with Ethan Nakamura.

To kill a yielding man... Annabeth drew her morals in thick black ink, and Percy had stepped over them.

So, Percy was sick of war. Fine, fine. Annabeth was sick of it, too, but she stuck through; she persisted. And hell, Annabeth was going to try keeping some of her principles along the way.

Five years ago, she had hated Percy for his father. For her mother's resentment of Poseidon. For their parents' rivalry.

But now? She snorted. This was all on him.


"The bitter heart eats its owner."

- African Proverb


The ground rumbled beneath him, as Percy dipped his fingers into fire again, gorging on the River Phlegethon.

The liquid burned in the back of Percy's throat. It quenched his thirst, but also heightened it. It was a contradiction, really: he was infinitely more insatiable, but also satisfied. Starving and full. Burning and chilled.

He tried to snap himself out of his half-full, half-empty trance.

"Happy?" Percy called sharply. He took a glob of fiery liquid and threw it at the ground. "Look at me, manipulating the water to my command." He ignored the singed feeling he got in his hands; it burned, but his hands took the fire slowly. Like his fingers were made of new wax, firm when a candle was lit.

"Elated," the voice answered.

Percy wondered if he could somehow transfer the river's contents. He looked for a bowl, a bucket, anything. He was starting to wonder if he should just pull off one of his shoes and use that to hold the life-giving, life-taking drink. Would the fire burn a hole through his sneaker? He didn't want to risk it.

If only Percy could manipulate the river. He didn't dwell long, though, as he stared at the forking river, splitting off into five separate branches, spread all across the vast canyons and valleys of Tartarus. Percy would never be rid of it, and he didn't know if that was supposed to be assuring or not.

"So, Perseus Jackson," said Percy's friend of a friend, "I have been wondering why you are in Tartarus. Don't you know monsters lurk in these parts, eating little boys who try to be heroes?"

Percy grimaced a bit, and a line of agitation imprinted itself onto his forehead.

"Tell me, hero, why are you here?"

"You already know," Percy said, gravelly. He smiled sarcastically. "I want to be a hero."

There was a loud, echoing laugh that seemed to fill the whole of Tartarus to the rim. The sound poured through the rivers, down the valleys, into Percy's ears. He stared around, wondering if he could spot a monster who'd heard it. It was so loud; how was Tartarus so undisturbed? The sound sounded like it'd come from a loud-speaker, plugged into the metaphorical socket of this hell. This couldn't be a common occurrence—

"You're just like him, you know. He tried to be a hero, too."

Percy gritted his teeth, annoyed at all the riddles he'd been getting. If Annabeth were here, she'd be analyzing the hell out of all the creepy voice's words. She'd probably be able to decode everything; she would know his identity in mere minutes. Percy was feeling significantly more and more useless as time wore on.

"Who?" he finally bit out, feeding into the voice's ego. He wished he could retract the desperation in his tone, instead sneering and saying, "You seem to know a lot about this freakish place. Tell me this, then: Where are Tartarus's metals located?"

A snort followed. Percy felt himself flush, rageful.

Percy wished he could swing his sword around and get his answers, but it was a lot harder to threaten a faceless, nameless being, especially one he couldn't see.

Trying to refocus, Percy scanned around, wondering how long it'd take him to find adamant. The expanse of red was taking great care in crushing Percy's spirits. The plains extended for dozens of miles on all sides. For all Percy knew, the pit could've stretched forever.

"I need help," he said, and that sunk in. He needed guidance.

He needed a guide.

"That you do, hero." Then a whistle filled Tartarus.

To Percy's ears, the piercing whistle sounded like a scream, or rather, a call for help.

Percy became tense at the sound, but he tried to calm himself. The voice had helped him (unless the fire river was something that killed him slowly, in which case he was already screwed). He eased himself; he didn't reach for his backpack, and Riptide laid limply in his hands. Percy was calm.

In the draw of Percy's breath, something fell from the sky with a big splat.

Percy was worried for a second that the voice had triggered some sort of rainstorm of human-sized beings, but he eased himself, staring at the sky suspiciously once more. The blur of grey, black, and blue cleared out, and Percy made out a large, grey-bearded man...a janitor with a baby-blue mop and a beaming, bright smile.

Percy felt something rise in his mind. An old memory.

"Hello, friend! I am Bob, Bob, Bob!" Bob said merrily. "Percy looks like he needs help—yay! You are the second friend I've helped today!"


A/N: As you can see, there's some elements of Percy's stay at Tartarus that'll be similar to HOH. For the most part though, it's going to be different from here on out. I really want to explore Tartarus, and in a way, explore Percy's character too.

I'd love to hear your thoughts/guesses/insights in the comments! The best part about writing is the reviews, so I hope you'll consider sending me one. Thank you for the read!