Percy wondered whether he should kill the Titan...

The voice had summoned Iapetus—Bob. Percy was tense because he was the one who'd fed the bloodthirsty Titan that name. Even though it was years ago, Percy knew this might've come back to haunt him; maybe it was proof Percy was rotten, even before he'd started killing enemy demigods. Hell, even before the memory-wipe, there was another piece of evidence of his twist of morals: Percy could bring himself back to the memory of he and his mother using Medusa's head to stone an already "stoned" Gabe Ugliano.

He refocused and stared, blinking. Percy was a skeptic about Bob. Memories were fickle, fickle things. They could come back, or they could be forever forgotten—and Gods knew what Bob would do to Percy Jackson if he turned back into Iapetus.

Percy imagined blood and guts and a manic janitor on top of his bleeding body. Yeah, that wasn't happening; Percy unsheathed his sword, causing a rippling sound of metal. Percy was about to angle his sword at Bob, but then he saw Bob's eyes.

They were innocent…and kind…and confused.

Percy put his sword back, laughed a bit with good humor, and said, "Sorry, Bob. Almost didn't recognize you for a second. It's good to have you back." Percy allowed crinkles to form next to his eyes, and he offered the Titan a handshake.

Bob smiled even brighter, ignoring the hovering hand, and he encased Percy in a tight hug.

Is this some sort of choking method? the back of Percy's head wondered. If he thinks this'll work, he's forgetting who has the sword— But then Bob released him, and Percy realized the hug was just that…a hug. Percy felt foolish, and he smiled sheepishly.

"So, Bob," said Percy, "will you help me with something?"

"Of course! I am Bob, and I can help with anything." He smiled, and his voice lowered, conspiratorial. "Plus, this place is very dangerous, Percy. You will need help!"

Percy felt the edges of his mouth droop, but he attempted another smile. "Oh, really, Bob?" He tried to put on a grateful tone, but it was hard—especially when Percy wanted to kill this pathetic Titan. This Titan who'd worked for Kronos, who'd committed atrocity after atrocity. "Will you tell me where to find a metal called adamant?"

Perhaps Percy was being too forward. It wasn't unheard of important mentions to trigger memories—and Iapetus had helped Kronos and his brothers kill Ouranos with an adamant-forged sickle. What is Bob flipped and turned back into Iapetus? Could Percy face him?

Percy wasn't the same weak, skinny boy he'd been pre-questing, but he would be easily defeated by Bob—Iapetus—'s build. By Iapetus's Titan status.

Idly, he wondered how much damage Riptide would do: Iapetus was an immortal. He might bleed if Percy pushed the blade deep enough against Iapetus's pale skin, but killing the Titan? It might be too much to ask for a sword as simple as Riptide to kill Iapetus.

And there was, of course, the question of what happened when a Titan or a demigod died in Tartarus? What happened to the monsters? Percy hoped he'd never find out; he was determined to survive.

Percy would find adamant. Then he would deal with Bob.

"Ah-da…ada…mant?" Bob asked quizzically.

"Yes, Bob," Percy said, his tone tipping into impatience.

He smiled to cover up his tone-shift, and Bob relaxed under the sight of Percy's dazzling grin. "I…I do not know," Bob admitted with truth in his eyes. "There is not much metal in this place. Only a lot of rock…a lot of fire."

Percy wanted to roll his eyes, glancing around Tartarus, like, A lot of rock and fire? Who knew?

"In the mountains, or hoarded among monsters," Percy clarified, "is there a metal—possibly a silver metal—that is unbreakable?" Bob thought for a moment, making Percy more and more certain of the Titan's uselessness.

"Nope!"

"Is there any water in Tartarus?" Percy asked wearily.

"Yep!" said Bob, and he used his mop to point at the rivers of fire and ink, dragging his fingers through the spirals and dips of the liquid. Percy felt himself clench his teeth.

"Do you know anyone who might know about metals in Tartarus?" he asked, sickly sweet.

"Maybe!" This answer made Bob tumble into a series of high-pitched giggles, so Percy gestured the Titan over.

He whispered into Bob's ear: "This is a treasure hunt," he said, and his tone was light. His eyes were as dark as coals. "If you find this metal for me, I will give you a reward."

"A reward?" Bob echoed brightly, smiling.

"Yes, a reward."

"Then we should get moving, Percy," Bob said. He started walking, pointing onward again with his mop. Percy sighed and followed. "To the treasure we go!"

"Not much help, are you?" he whispered at the sky.

The voice replied back with a string of laughter, and the sound passed through all of Tartarus, only meeting Percy's ears.


The second demigod cursed at hell. He was bruised and bloody on the floor, and he rested there, his head pressed up against the sizzling ground. He tried to make snow angels against the red dirt, and the absurdity that he was doing something frivolous in hell finally hit him.

He probably laid there for centuries. The hero couldn't tell. He was too tired to focus on thought.

He brushed a hand against his short hair, sitting up a bit. He knew he was there for a reason, but he was so...scared. Anxious. The demigod had passed by a set of dragon-like creatures and the spirits from the Mansion of Night. He'd had to use a sword against a particularly ferocious monster, and he'd practically died from, not the creature, but sheer exhaustion. Monster ash clung to his pale cheeks like golden face-paint.

Then Bob had found him. And he was kind...the Titan had held his hand through hell. They'd made it near the center of Tartarus, not too far from the Doors of Death. Bob's ears had twitched then, and he'd blinked his wise light-blue eyes.

See, the demigod knew he was there to find the weapon against Kronos, but he was desperate for a way out of this place. He needed to secure an exit, because otherwise, what good would some shiny metal do, buried deep in hell?

(And maybe, he wanted to live. Was that so very wrong?)

The hero stood up. Bob had exchanged a pursed good-bye, expecting to be back soon. The hero's friend had not yet returned, and he just sank there. He had this chance of...redemption, and somehow, he was doing nothing with it. Maybe the hero wasn't really a hero: maybe he was a scared little boy, who wanted to be a hero.

He sat up, his eyes shut with intensity. He needed out...of this place, this hell, this purgatory.

The hero stood slowly, gritting his teeth so hard they seemed to turn to fine dust, and he took his first shaky step.

Into the searing red of Tartarus.


"Well-fed devils perform better than famished saints."

- D.L. Smith


The body was decorated with flowers—a dozen white lilies, orchids, and roses decorated the edges of the blackened corpse—and Annabeth felt disgusting bile rise... The body was dragged in a beautiful polished coffin. The boy didn't look like a boy anymore—his eyes were slid shut, and his whole body was blackened and ashy. It—he, Annabeth corrected, because Percy couldn't...couldn't be dead—looked like it'd been burned...demolished with a force to be reckoned. Annabeth thought of Luke and his bloodthirsty eyes. This was his doing, wasn't it?

Annabeth thought of their last words with one another, and she closed her eyes tightly, her skin prickling with anxiety, guilt, and horrible sorrow.

The body was carried in roughly, placed in the center of Camp Half-Blood, and Annabeth had been there for hours, staring and obsessing and fighting off the feelings churning in her gut. She peeked at the body again, and tried to tell herself this wasn't Percy. Percy was alive and fuming about their fight, probably in the Poseidon cabin, or Percy was out in the training field, trying to slice dummies. He wasn't seriously in this neat, white coffin—this wasn't the way Percy Jackson—their hero...her hero—was supposed to go.

But Annabeth was a reasonable, realistic girl. The evidence was in front of her eyes: Percy was dead.

She should've checked on him last night. She should've known Percy would've tried to go on a quest of grandeur, after the tense meeting. Annabeth was so selfish, and she'd badmouthed him silently in her thoughts. What a friend she was, what a great, merry way for Annabeth to end her evening—

Chiron was suddenly next to her, even though Annabeth should've heard the clacking from his hooves. Maybe that was what grief—was this grief?—was: a feeling that blinded her to everything. That made her deaf to the rest of the world.

Her mentor stared, but he didn't do something as rude as clearing his throat or tapping her shoulder. He just waited for Annabeth's slow-to-react brain to register his presence before talking.

With the tone of a therapist, Chiron said, "Annabeth, if the body disturbs you, we can put it..."

"No," Annabeth blurted, her tone loud and also reserved. She stared at Percy's shut, cinder-dipped eyes. "No."

"I know you two were close," Chiron said, and his tone was as soft as cotton. "He was...he was like a son to me, you know. Like the child I neve knew I had, until it was too late."

Annabeth closed her eyes again. Too late. It was too late for Annabeth to apologize to Percy, too late for them to laugh and hold hands again, too late for Annabeth to tell Percy it was okay to hurt. That Annabeth would wait for him. She blinked at Chiron, and her eyes were watery with unshed tears.

Chiron rested a hand at the coffin, smiling wistfully. "He was a good man, Annabeth. I'm sure he died an honorable death."

But Annabeth knew that Percy didn't want an honorable death. He wanted a natural death...a death that followed something ordinary. Something like a collapse from old age, or a run at a red light. Percy would never want this—he would never want this burnt version of himself, smeared with dust and smelling of ash and a put-out fire.

Everyone got that wrong about Percy; they thought brave, heroic Percy would want a brave, heroic death. Annabeth knew better, and it was driving her insane. The guilt physically hurt her chest...because she could've stopped Percy from leaving. She could've made him understand.

Percy could have been alive again.

"Where was the body found?"

"Four miles off of Long Island," Chiron said, like he was repeating off of a script. "We're thinking that Kronos might've done this, but it could've been anything, really." A part of Annabeth was sure this was Kronos's doing. Kronos, who'd always obsessed over the prophecy—over Percy.

Until his seventeenth birthday, that is. As soon as Percy cleared out for the placement at sixteen, Kronos had redirected. However, staring at Percy's charred body, Annabeth had the feeling Kronos deemed Percy important again. Why else would Percy be sacrificed in such a disgusting, painful method?

She breathed out, trying to control her racing heart. She tried to look away from Percy's corpse and failed. Annabeth was sure that any second now, Percy would burst alive, color returning to his cheeks, his sea-green eyes sparkling that iconic, troublemaking sparkle.

"I can go to the Underworld," said Annabeth. "I can save him—I can leave camp immediately—go to Hades. Beg Hades to bring Percy back from Elysium. It will work, it will have to work—" She was babbling, tears filling and spreading over her cheeks. "I can...I can fix this."

Annabeth and her hubris. A likely combination.

Chiron smiled a grim, sad smile. "I know how you're feeling." Annabeth sputtered something, but she knew the centaur was right. Chiron was thousands of years old, and he'd seen the greatest of heroes fall. What made Percy different? He was just another card in a well-shuffled deck. "But we need you here, Annabeth. Imagine what would happen if you, one of our best fighters, left right after Percy."

It would devastate them. It wouldn't just be gory—it would lower the whole camp's morale.

"What if I went down there," Annabeth said thickly, "and brought Percy back? We would have an extra fighter, we could use his help—"

Did they need Percy's help, though? It was a horrible thought, but it was rooted in logic and reasoning. Percy was controversial...whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, however he wanted, was the way Percy went. He messed up her and the gods' plans, caused murmurs of worry where there should be pride, and he wanted to lead a few dozen young demigods into a...massacre. Annabeth hated to admit this, but no one genuinely liked Percy anymore. They liked the idea of him, sure, but when Percy changed, so did the rest of camp.

So Percy wouldn't reassure the campers. It didn't matter. Annabeth needed Percy. He couldn't just ditch her halfway into this war

Halfway into their war.

"At the moment, we should focus on finding the Big Three child of the prophecy," Chiron said wisely, and Annabeth hated his common sense. "That would be Nico...unless there are any other unknown younger children."

Annabeth struggled to contain another wave of tears. If Percy was here, he'd manipulate the tears on her cheeks to dance in the air, glittering translucently in the rays of sunlight. This was Percy. He wasn't just worth a prophecy. He was a boy who had dreams and wishes and deserved to live

Annabeth shoved down her emotions. "I..."

"We can't bring people back from the dead, Annabeth. We can only hope they are at peace. Take Percy's mother...Percy begged for her to come back, and his emotions made him rash and weak. You cannot succumb to the same strings that pulled Percy along in his downfall."

Annabeth bit her lip, drawing blood. "He was my best friend. And...we had a fight."

"He will understand in Elysium," said Chiron. "Annabeth, he will forgive you, for he is at peace. Let us create a world he would be proud of living in. By defeating the Titans."

She swallowed and stared at Chiron's dark brown eyes. She averted her gaze, then nodded—one swift, brisk movement.

Annabeth's eyes were pulled back and forth between Percy's corpse and Chiron's crinkled eyes. For a brief second, she wondered where Poseidon was—shouldn't he be mourning his son?—before she diverted her attention. Annabeth swallowed again, her mouth finally forming the words before she could rethink.

"Do you think we should've told him?" she whispered quietly.

Chiron's eyes dimmed, but he said nothing.


Bob was walking, glitter in his eyes, a bounce in his steps. He looked like he wanted to impress Percy, but all Percy felt was...uncomfortable. He just wanted to get to the part where he could get the metal, kill Bob, then kill Kronos soon after. He wanted this phase of his bottled anger to be over with—he wanted out of hell, and Gods above, Percy wanted a goddamn shower.

He smelled of something burning, and it was annoying.

"So, Bob," Percy asked curiously, "what was the voice that called you? Who was it?"

Bob tilted his head, and he stopped whistling a marching song. "Does Percy not remember it? You called me, of course, with a ringing 'Bob'!" Bob sank into a number of giggles, before repeating his name...again and again. Then again after that.

Percy started to feel uncomfortable, and it wasn't just his unwashed jeans and sweat-drenched shirt.

"I didn't say that!"

"That's weird! Do you have memory problems?" Bob asked.

Percy cringed at the question, before he smiled brightly. "No! Of course not. I remember now, Bob; thanks." Percy let out a breath of air when Bob started singing again, his voice bellowing all over Tartarus in waves. He tried not to wince, but it was hard when his worst enemy's brother was out here...singing and pretending everything was a-okay between them.

Suppressing his murderous tendencies was getting harder by the second.

"Getting hasty there, aren't we, Percy Jackson?" the voice asked. Percy ignored him, and that was his middle finger to the sky above.

"Are we going to anyone in particular?" Percy asked. He glanced around, observing a big palette of red without many monsters. Monsters had started flooding into the real world after they began to speed-run out of hell; this meant that Tartarus wasn't as crowded as it'd been before. Some monsters hung around in the shadows, but they stayed to themselves, quietly growling.

Percy bared his teeth back, a vicious instinct that made the monsters shrug back into what they were previously doing. Percy had never thought about what monsters thought about—he'd always assumed they just thought of eating and killing demigods—but they just sat there, fighting and yelling and letting out howls to the sky above. It got him thinking...what made a monster crave demigod flesh?

He snapped out of his thoughts. The more he thought about monsters, the more he would sympathize with monsters, the more he would be a monster. Camp Half-Blood's soured looks told him he was monstrous enough with his outspoken thoughts and trigger-happy tendencies.

He couldn't prove them right.

Percy murmured to Bob: "Where are we going? To who, as well?"

Bob replied, "To the center of Tartarus! Monsters aplenty!"

This made Percy freeze. "Monsters aplenty!" sounded like a threat, and Percy was already skeptical of Bob. What if Iapetus was pulling the oldest trick in the book—trickery itself?

"Okay," said Percy, but his eyes were dark.

They walked onward, the land still and their already bland conversation going staler. Even "the voice" was more interesting than this mind-wiped Titan. Percy was even sure that cruel Iapetus would make him less uneasy than the Titan in front of him. He couldn't trust Bob, and that flared his anxiety.

"Why do you want to find the metal?" Bob asked.

"For an arts-and-craft project" was what Percy replied with. Unoriginal, yes, but effective. Bob clapped happily.

Then Bob paused, abrupt, and he pointed with his mop (this couldn't become a common occurrence). He smiled widely, and Percy squinted, spotting a ring—a circle—drawn on the floor of Tartarus. The circle was twenty-five by twenty-five feet wide, and around it, a large cluster of loud, energized monsters hung. There were two monsters currently in the circle—and there was golden ash...everywhere.

Percy recognized it as soon as he saw it.

It was an arena. Or, to be more specific, some Tartarus sport that very much resembled sumo-wrestling. If they took the humans out of the equation, that is, and replaced them with bloodthirsty, unique monsters.

Scanning around, this was the only bit of monster civilization for miles. It seemed to be quite popular—with a crowd. In fact, the whole get-up reminded Percy of the planned fights in the Labyrinth that Percy had been forced to spar in.

Percy wondered why Bob was pointing this section of Tartarus out. Unless the monsters somehow had adamant, Percy was uninterested in getting into fights for other people's entertainment. Percy wasn't a performing monkey—his skilled swordsmanship and vicious determination were born from the real battlefield, not this fake, desperate one.

He turned to Bob, his eyes suspicious. "Why?" he asked, little more than a breath.

"Metal!" Bob exclaimed.

Percy's eyes flicked over, and in a monster's hands (was that another empousa?) was a shiny block of silver metal. It was so small, less than half a foot in length, but Percy's eyes widened. Adamant did exist in Tartarus, and it was like all the death, heat, walking, and failed attempts was worth it. All he needed was the promise of hope, and Percy succumbed to the feeling of joy and lightness.

A part of him, of course, told himself that it was too...easy, but his adrenaline blinded him.

In that way, Percy was weak. He was hopeful and desperate and painfully, entirely human.

"We just have to snatch it—" Percy said, his eyes doing their own sort of smirking.

"No," Bob said. For the first time, the Titan's one word rang out in panic, in something other than that happiness. Percy narrowed his eyes, waiting for the outbreak, for the irrevocable "betrayal" (of course Percy expected it, so it couldn't really be considered that). "No, no! Percy, there's way too many of them! You will fail!"

Percy hated the word: fail. Percy had already failed at controlling River Phlegethon, and now an amnesiac Iapetus was certain he'd fail in stealing from a group of dead monsters? When would people stop underestimating Percy, putting him on the lowest shelf on the rack? Percy laughed, a snorting sort of laugh, that made Bob's eyes widen uncomfortably.

"How do you want me to get the metal?" Percy asked. "It's the easiest way: a quiet sneak over, and if it comes down to a fight, I fight. You'll have my back."

Percy would, of course, use Bob, and then mechanically get rid of him as soon as his usefulness ran dry, but he didn't mention that. Naïve or not, Bob probably knew what death was, and he would instantly turn his back on Percy, if he found out Percy's...intentions.

"I'm going to get that metal."

Bob pursed his lips, as he stared off at the distance. The jeering monsters seemed to be taking bets, lifting the glinting adamant further up, making Percy lick his lips with desire. He wanted that powerful metal in his hands—he wanted the control it'd give him over his fate. All of Olympus's fate.

"I can fight," said Bob, his tone more solemn. "I will fight for Percy and help win the treasure hunt." He twirled the flopping mop, making Percy wrinkle his nose.

Percy would not let a Titan like Bob usurp him. Even if he did go back to Olympus, adamant in hand, he could never live down making a disgusting Titan do his dirty work. Percy was strong and powerful, and he would not be underestimated by Iapetus.

"No," Percy said with a sweet smile. "Bob, I can't make you do that. This is my fight, and I need to take it."

Bob's eyes were weary and wide, like a puppy's begging eyes. Percy did not falter—maybe that made him unsympathetic, but Percy couldn't care at the moment. All he cared for was that metal and the promise of a victory against Kronos.

"Percy's friend is in Tartarus," Bob said, as if just realizing it. Percy's lip pursed—was this a reference to himself in third-person, a monster perhaps, or something...else? Someone else, rather? "Your friend is close. I need to find him, and I will take him to you, Percy!"

Percy was highly skeptical, so he just waved Bob off. Bob couldn't find a Titan to come back and murder Percy—all the other Titans were currently sipping piña coladas on Mount Olympus—and Percy didn't see any problem with Bob ditching him. It'd give Percy more freedom to kill, without the pressure of his hero façade cracking in front of an innocent being like Bob.

Bob left in a run, flying to the left of Tartarus, far from the two monsters fighting in the circle.

His gaze swerved to the fight again.

Percy was dead-set on getting that adamant. He was sure he could steal the metal silently, from under their filthy noses, if he directed his attack right. Percy knew one thing for sure, though: he would not fight in the ring. Never again would he play the role of a gladiator.


A/N:

percy: i'm never gonna fight for anyone's entertainment ever again

next chapter: lol

Don't forget to comment, and tell me your thoughts! Relationship is leaning to Percabeth or Pereyna, but romance won't be heavy here. I'm planning for this fic to be long, so I'm hoping you guys'll stick by me as I sort it out :) Tell me what you want to see! Thank you for all the favorites/follows; you guys are literally out here doing the gods' work...