A/N: Thanks for sticking by me, and welcome back! I call this a transitional chapter, but way too many things do happen, so it's an odd chapter. An estranged-cousin-that-your-mom-forces-you-to-meet sort of chapter. In case you haven't pieced it together, in this fic, the first ten or so chapters are like a prologue. In my mind, this is not final-Percy. This is not even midway-Percy. His journey is a road paved in blood and pain. I recommend listening to "Their Sign" and "Good Kid" from the PJO musical for this chapter. Enjoy.
A Few Months Ago
Percy Jackson was a good kid. At least, he liked to think he'd been one for a large slice of his life. Thirty percent of his life had been used for fighting monsters and playing hero for the gods. The other seventy was a mixture of perfect bliss, his mother's sweet words, and Gabe's fist.
Percy didn't really think of himself as a bad kid. He was just a scrappy young boy from New York City, who was doggedly followed around by trouble. Trouble was a silent walker, two steps behind Percy, dripping in glittery malice; trouble brought Percy detention after detention. It brought Percy another C- from Chiron and another scribbled note to "keep trying." It brought his friends falling like dominoes behind him. It brought him hell.
He tried to stick by his simple, easy philosophy: I am a good kid. Five words, five syllables, a single sentence. Yet it was so hard to remember sometimes, when Percy sank to the floor, fighting off angry tears.
It was hard not to blame himself when so many had died, so many were going to die.
Some hero I am, he'd thought, as his troops fell on pavements dripping in red blood. Some hero I am, he'd thought, as his eyes met his parents' mangled corpses.
He tried to contain the tears leaking pathetically out of his eyes.
Heroes didn't cry, they didn't give up, and most importantly of all these things, they most certainly didn't lose.
Sometimes, that made Percy Jackson wonder if being a bad hero was just as bad as being a villain.
Because in some other life, some other universe, Percy had defeated the Titans on his first try, becoming the grand hero of the prophecy. That strange, foreign version of Percy would be holding hands with Annabeth Chase, piecing their future together. He'd have his mom with him...and her smiling wrinkle lines, home-baked cookies, and salt-and-pepper-haired fiancé.
In another life, Percy Jackson would be happy.
"I'm a horrible hero," Percy had admitted to Chiron on one especially bleak spring day. The icy air had danced around Percy's skin, sending chills across the whole of his body. "I can't do anything right. Fighting with Kronos...I'm dooming us all."
Chiron had stared at Percy imploringly. The centaur waited for Percy to continue, but that was everything Percy needed to say. Chiron's mouth twisted a bit, but he didn't speak.
I'm a horrible hero. There wasn't really a way to argue around it.
"Percy," Chiron said, his tone teetering on that line between nervous and calm, "I've told you that it is heroes specifically that attract tragedy."
"I know that." It didn't really change the point.
"Hercules once killed his wife and two kids," Chiron said in a rush. He let out a panicked, forcefully chipper laugh. "So you can't really fault yourself, Percy. It could be worse. The war is..." His mentor didn't even bother finishing the statement. "Anyway, my point is...it could be worse."
If Percy needed to be compared to Hercules—who'd murdered his own family—to make himself look good, he didn't know what kind of hero that made him. It wasn't a compliment, so sixteen-year-old Percy Jackson just sat there, his usually-bright eyes devoid of emotion.
Chiron coughed. "I'm sorry. I am sure you understand what I mean."
And Percy didn't. Not really.
But the conversation was over, so Percy moved on. It hurt to think about his failures, so he stopped thinking about them. He trained and practiced and fought, the idea of winning clear as a single, sharp staccato note ringing in his head.
Present Day
While he was sleeping away, drool dragging across his lips and chin, Percy murdered Bob. The better word would be "eliminated," because Bob wasn't truly human and wasn't really dead—he'd reform in Tartarus eventually (probably)—but Percy still felt a tinge of guilt. Bob had wrapped some cloth over Percy in a makeshift quilt.
Maybe Bob had been kind to him, maybe being a Titan didn't automate with pure evil, but Percy needed a test subject for his block of adamant, and Bob was just there, practically begging to be killed.
Bob deserved it.
Iapetus deserved it.
That monster deserved it.
Percy's mind was still on Kronos's (was he real? was he fake?) words, thinking about his mother above him.
He needed to get his mom out. Even if Sally Jackson had been lovingly placed into the Fields of Elysium, it was a stupid place where a mass of horrible, disgusting heroes probably drunk away and partied forever.
It was no heaven.
Sally Jackson's heaven was supposed to be on earth: where Percy could hug her, make blue pancake batter with her, sit next to her on movie-nights, watch her play the bass with finesse, sing cheesy songs with her. Where she could be Percy's mom, not Percy's tragic backstory.
But joining Kronos couldn't be the answer. It couldn't.
"Mom," he whispered, not so much as a foot away from Bob's rotting, ichor-dripping corpse. "Mom, wait for me," he promised, pulling his gaze away from the metallic smell of ichor, adamant, and his own blood. "Mom, I'm gonna get you out of there," he stated into the buzzing that was Tartarus's soundscape.
His lips were chapped and preserved in that frown-like purse, and his lip trembled, his mouth opening just the slightest
But despite it all, for reasons he couldn't place, Percy did not swear on the River Styx.
"The true art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting."
- Sun Tzu, The Art of War
"My name is Jason," said the boy, holding out a firm hand. His eyes were a peaceful light-blue, and Annabeth stared at him carefully, searching for imperfections. "I...er, I heard you're the unofficial leader here?"
Annabeth quirked an unimpressed blonde eyebrow. "You could say that," she answered blandly.
"So..." Jason Grace dragged out. "You're my sister's best friend. Annabeth? Annabeth Chase?"
At the mention of Thalia, who'd been placed in Camp Jupiter, Annabeth's eyes softened. With everything that had happened with...with the funeral, Annabeth's mind hadn't thought all that much about the daughter of Zeus. Her friend...her family member, even.
Then her mind snapped to the idea of their family together: Thalia and Annabeth and...Luke. Her mind really went there, and she reeled it back, trying not to think of sky-blue eyes and sandy hair.
"Yeah," Annabeth said, and she didn't elaborate.
The silence was so thick she could've drowned in it. Jason rubbed his neck sheepishly, and the action reminded her of Percy.
Percy.
Percy.
Percy.
She winced. Her gut tightened, a pain in her stomach forming suddenly like a bursting firework.
Out of nowhere, while Annabeth's expression turned sour and pained, Jason cleared his throat softly and said, "I'm guessing that, well...you really miss him, right?"
"What?" she asked, both her eyebrows coming up now. She ignored the clench in her body. She ignored the image of beautiful-eyed Percy Jackson, laughing, playing in her mind.
"Um," Jason said. "Percy Jackson, the son of Poseidon here?"
Percy.
Percy.
Percy.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Jason told her, his tone understanding, breaking Annabeth out of her echoing thoughts. "I know...well, I know it was a recent loss. It wasn't my place to say anything. I'm sorry for bringing it up."
But whether Annabeth talked about him or not, whether her mind strayed to him or not, he was still gone.
He was still dead.
Percy.
Percy.
Percy.
"Fuck," Annabeth cursed in ancient Greek, making Jason's eyes blink in surprise. She wondered if the Roman demigod could understand Greek, hence the surprise, or if it was that shocking to hear preppy upstart Annabeth Chase cussing. "Fuck, I...I have to go."
She ran off, not bothering to stare back at this blond rip-off of Percy Jackson. She had to push herself through; she had to get stronger.
Percy's death had occurred...so long ago. Annabeth was one of Camp Half-Blood's best fighters, and she needed to put Percy's death behind her. Instead, her life had spun and shifted into something pensive sadness.
It was a depressing anthology of tears at night, stolen looks at Percy's rotting corpse, and polite nods at random gods' condolences.
("How tragic!" sniffled Aphrodite, holding a tissue and wiping at the perfect mascara around her eyes. "I really thought you had something there!")
("Would you like to join the Hunters?" asked Artemis unabashedly.)
("Your strategy at the meetings and performance on the battlefield is lacking, Annabeth. You must take this loss and grow stronger," noted Athena.)
("I'm sorry," apologized Poseidon in his bright green Hawaiian shirt, a polite smile resting demurely on his face.)
The words played around her head like a million looped audios. Annabeth's skin felt sticky and clammy, sweat pooling everywhere, and she just closed her eyes and did the only thing she knew how to:
Annabeth ran.
Annabeth had ran away from Virginia when she'd turned seven, and even now, ten years later, Annabeth turned her head the opposite way in the face of her problems, running, running, running.
She ran and ran until she found the only place she could feel Percy. The blue-green waves of the camp's lakes.
She'd come here many times in the course of that week. It was a haven for her, really, even though she could not control its liquid contents like Percy could. It felt like Percy, and that was comfort enough.
Sometimes, she cried; sometimes, she allowed herself to sit there, her face stoic and restrained.
The lake's waters rested there primly, unbothered, as mellow as it could be there.
It was a lot like Percy's corpse, Annabeth thought, without her mind's consent -
Annabeth threw up on the spot.
"When I think of death, and of late the idea has come with alarming frequency, I seem at peace with the idea that a day will dawn when I will no longer be among those living in this valley of strange humors. I can accept the idea of my own demise, but I am unable to accept the death of anyone else. I find it impossible to let a friend or relative go into that country of no return."
- Maya Angelou, When I Think of Death
Percy rubbed his stomach, unsatisfied, and looked at the container of beef jerky from off the floor. Iapetus laid next to it, and he nudged the decomposing ashes in front of his food, grabbing the flimsy plastic material. He took a large bite off it, and it was hard and tasted a bit like ash and rot. Percy forced it down, clutched his chest some more, and wallowed.
He'd been using his strength to contain the blood leaking out, but Percy wasn't a god, despite how sucky such a predicament was. He cussed aloud and laughed to himself, not an insane sort of laugh. A this-situation-is-so-fucking-shitty-get-me-out-of-here laugh that toed the lines between desperation, depression, anger, and panic. He took another painful bite, and his teeth hurt from it, so he tried to chew more deliberately. To add on to the shitty taste, the damn thing was possibly the hardest piece of jerky Percy had ever had. Percy wished he had a coke to wash it all down, but he was low on options.
"This sucks," he muttered.
"My offer still stands," Kronos said in a soft, beguiling tone, somewhere off in the distance.
"Yeah, fuck you too." He didn't even miss a beat.
Percy spat out some of the black-purple jerky, sputtering at the even grosser aftertaste. His breath probably smelled worse than Tartarus's unpleasant, sulfur-like stench; Percy needed a breath-mint. He sniffed the air around him, before deciding, All of me needs a breath-mint.
Kronos materialized in front of Percy.
"Ah, a feast for a king," Kronos said idly, his eyes latching onto Percy's disgusting jerky. Percy was nonplussed, settling on throwing the jerky at Kronos's face. It flew through, of course, but there was a certain satisfaction in watching, even if it was fleeting.
At least Rachel's hairbrush attempt actually did some damage. His was just weak.
Kronos's lip upturned, and Percy saw Luke peeking through, like a golden sun behind dark grey clouds. Then he had to remind himself that Luke was just as villainous as Kronos, if not even more so, and Percy's eyes darkened.
Those golden eyes followed Percy, finding Bob. Or what was left of Bob, all things considered.
Percy shrugged. "Miss your little brother?"
"Older, actually," clarified Kronos with a small, almost vicious smile. "My, my, my, Perseus... You've killed your ally, and now you're in Tartarus, all alone."
He felt himself stiffen slightly, and he clutched his simultaneously bleeding-and-not-bleeding chest. Kronos's eyes fell over there. Percy inwardly cursed his weakness. Because heroes were strong and formidable, and Percy's orange T-shirt was getting soaked with his own blood, over and over again.
Kronos laughed. "Your powers are truly impressive, grandson."
Percy stiffened at that. You're not my grandfather, bubbled in his throat, but that was denying the obvious. Percy may not be fond of everyone in his familial godly line, but it'd do no good to deny basic things.
"Manipulating blood..." the lord of the Titans continued, his tone musing and contemplative. That was a hint of...pride, envy, surprise, there, too. He let out a string of claps. "Not even my son could accomplish such a feat."
Poseidon, Percy thought to himself.
"Not even my brother Oceanus was able to control blood."
Percy didn't really know how to feel about that for a moment, but there was a part of him that felt...special. Percy felt powerful, and after getting beaten up by a tiny army of monsters, knifed in the chest by an angry Nakamura, he treasured that feeling of specialness.
The problem was who the pseudo-compliment was coming from.
Kronos changed the subject smoothly, and Percy wondered if the Titan king had been a politician in his previous life. Then he remembered Kronos was immortal and had been stashed in Tartarus for eons.
"How about I offer you a riddle, Perseus Jackson?" Kronos said, beseechingly calm.
Percy narrowed his brows, his expression pinched and tight, but Kronos didn't offer him anything but a self-satisfied smile and:
"'The man who makes it has no need for it. The man who purchases it does not use it. The man who uses it does not know he is. What is it?'"
Before Percy could even try unraveling the riddle, he forced himself not to. Riddle-solving was Annabeth's job, while Percy was supposed to wave his sword around and hope the problem disappeared. While Annabeth was a certified genius in many fields, Percy had been scrambling for Fs and Ds back in middle-school. He wasn't smart enough, because on top of being a shitty hero, the shitty icing on the cake was that Percy just...wasn't good.
The only thing he had going for him was his blood manipulation and fighting. And Poseidon was responsible for both.
He brought his mind down from Percy-is-a-loserville.
Percy thought and thought. Both the makers and purchasers did not use this item. Could it be a gift? But then again, wouldn't the receiver know that they were using the gift? Was it some sort of metaphor? Percy thought and thought, intent in his mental ministrations, but his head was cloudy. He was jumpy and confused, and on a side note, why the hell was Percy entertaining Kronos with this little riddle?
This was Kronos.
Percy Jackson did not owe him any answers.
And yet, his stupid mouth questioned, "A self-help book?"
Kronos didn't outright laugh, but the edges of Luke's eyes did crinkle, barely suppressed interest clear for Percy to see. "No, Percy Jackson. The item I refer to is a coffin."
Percy put the pieces together, rethinking the words. "Coffin" did fit, but that wasn't Percy's main concern.
Percy's eyebrows dug into his eyelids, making him look scornful and also confused. He felt like he was missing something, because the punchline didn't quite land. Why was Kronos giving him children's riddles, without some ulterior motive? His mind spiraled down a very dark tunnel, until something just clicked. The answer being a coffin... Percy's currently dead state...
"Smart boy, aren't you?" Kronos cooed when Percy's eyebrows shot up in realization, the epiphany coming to him. Kronos's compliment drooped over Percy like satin, but Percy ignored the light, weightless feeling of it. "You're dead, and your little camp has put you in a coffin."
Percy's features twisted into an unplaceable emotion. The thought of his dead body made him uncomfortable, and Kronos obviously knew that.
It doesn't matter, he told himself with purposeful fervor. Practically anyone feels uncomfortable at the idea of their corpse.
"Well, a coffin, or a sarcophagus," Percy spat. He remembered the atrocious, terrifyingly intimidating casket Luke had risen Kronos in: a golden rectangle-like piece of metal, carved with grisly scenes of murder, death, monarchy, and power derived from carnage. "But surely you have experience with that, don't you?" asked Percy, his tone sickeningly sweet.
"Another similarity we share," responded the lord of time, tilting his head. "I too wanted to kill my father."
"What?" Percy was sure Kronos was pulling this card from nowhere. His first thought was of Paul Blofis, but then, he realized this was a jab at Percy's relationship with his godly parent. Poseidon.
It was completely untrue, of course. Percy had never wanted to kill Poseidon, but the more he thought about it, he did acknowledge how he'd harbored some dark thoughts over his absentee father. The thoughts were not unwarranted, of course; he just wanted Poseidon to step up when Gabe was drunk and violent. When Percy's grades suffered, and when he was kicked out of six schools. In those early days, Percy had just wanted a dad, someone to play ball with and say, "That's my son right there!" Even though now Percy understood Poseidon was a god, and that gods were busy, he never got an answer for why he was so easily ignored.
But that simmering pot of feelings was not bloodlust. Percy didn't get a vengeful, hateful feeling when he thought of his father.
Even so, the statement did hit closer to home than he'd anticipated. The scar that ran over Luke stuck out to Percy, but somehow, it didn't strike fear. It was... and Percy stared down at his bleeding chest, then back to the scar, ...familiar
It was a horrible, bizarre, and strangely addictive feeling: comparing himself to Kronos, his enemy.
The creature that was reason his mother was dead, despite all of Kronos's demented half-truths and botched excuses. Percy imagined their bloodied bodies, a sting in his eyes that wasn't necessarily tears, and forced himself out of the rabbit-hole that was his thoughts.
"I am nothing like you," Percy gritted out.
"I said that about my own father," laughed Kronos, sharp and foreboding. "Ouranos despised me, for I was smaller...and crueler...and angrier. My youngest son, your mighty Zeus, vowed he'd never be like me. Like his horrible, inhumane father, who swallowed his children for supper." Kronos allowed himself a mirthful smirk. "I've heard that he swallowed his wife because he was afraid. I've heard Poseidon torture, maim, and assault, hiding behind mellow waves and fatherly kindness." There was a contemplative silence that followed these assessments, making Percy raise his chin. He felt perturbed. "Do not fool yourself, Perseus Jackson. You are no hero. You are part of this mockery of a line."
"I am a hero," he said because if he wasn't one, he didn't know what he was.
This loyalty that he had almost to a fault...this self-sacrificial energy that sent him chasing metal in hell...this love for his demigod comrades. Without the title of hero, Percy didn't even know who he was anymore. A son of Poseidon? A child? A screw-up, who couldn't protect his mother? A screw-up, who his father willingly ignored?
Had Tartarus ever felt...this lonely? he wondered quietly.
"That is, of course, besides the point," Kronos said dismissively. "Would you like to see how they treat your corpse up there?"
"They treat it like they treat any dead body," Percy said. His voice was stately and toneless. "They put it in the weekly coffin, then bury it in the woods after a day." What did Kronos want Percy to say? That they defiled the corpse? That they played tag with it? That they played patty-cake with its hands?
"Then explain why the corpse is still there, prim and set."
"It's been a day," Percy said dryly.
"Has it?" asked Kronos, and his eyes glinted in mock-sympathy. "Oh, Perseus, it seems you don't know."
Curiosity tugged at the strings of his heart, but Percy could not part his lips. Asking would be like admitting weakness, so instead, he thinned his lips.
"You don't know how much time has truly passed, do you?"
The words curdled his stomach unpleasantly. It was a horrible sensation because Percy, without a doubt, knew it'd been a day. It'd obviously been a day.
He'd only walked for a few hours, fought for less than thirty minutes, rested for two hours, contemplated his existence for five minutes, and killed Bob in one. Altogether, he'd wager nineteen hours passing in total. He instinctively checked his watch, but nothing was there, and he gritted his teeth furiously.
"There is no way of tracking time in Tartarus," Kronos said. "Clocks, silly as the human invention is, won't show the right time, and even if they did, you'd never know which day it is. I stayed in Tartarus, fractured by my own children, for eons. Even I, the lord of time, was left in the dark. What makes you think you are any special?"
"I don't know, and I don't care," spat Percy, frustrated.
"I know how long has passed, Perseus Jackson. You only need to ask."
He wanted to ask for the time from Kronos: ask something so freakishly normal, but he knew Kronos would mess with him and say something far-off. Kronos would say something like: Nine trillion years, and Percy, being miserable enough, would believe it.
"Your body is still preserved in a white, polished coffin," Kronos stated. "It has been more than a day, more than a week... More than..."
Percy could not hear anymore of this. It would drive him insane.
"Stop," he finally choked out.
And surprisingly, Kronos allowed him this single reprieve. With Kronos's sharp attention away from coffins and death-dates, the Titan cocked his head at Percy's bleeding chest and lack of food.
"You're going to die there, Perseus Jackson."
Percy didn't dare entertain Kronos with a response. Of course he would die there, without proper treatment, but he didn't care. He was sure he'd reform after death, and Percy knew enough about video-games to know respawning would give him his full health and power. Death had never tasted so sweet.
"Have you tried to control the river again?" asked Kronos.
"No," Percy let out, eyeing him suspiciously. "And I'm not doing it again. It won't work."
"You're too narrow-minded, Jackson." Kronos made a sound that clicked like, tut-tut. "A few months ago...you would've said the same thing about manipulating blood."
"Biology lesson, grandpappy," said Percy, his pretenses dripping away in exhaustion and anger, "there's water in blood. There's no water in evil fire!"
"Every river contains water."
"It's not a river!" he exclaimed, sitting there with a bigger twist in his mouth.
"The River Phlegethon can melt any substance, Perseus. Did you know that?" Kronos's gold eyes stared off at the river. "It can melt...anything, no matter how durable. Even adamant."
Like an instinct, Percy put a hand around the block of metal, his eyes flaming with suspicion. Kronos chuckled and said, "I do not mean to take your adamant, and I do not mean harm. Just like you, I once wielded an adamantine weapon, hoping to destroy my forefather." The similarities were starting to pile and mess with Percy's subconscious. "I don't mean to take it from you. Only...I have a suggestion."
"Whatever suggestion you have, I won't take it," seethed Percy.
Kronos smiled condescendingly, and the scar on his lip seemed to prop up. "Stubborn boy, stubborn boy," he said. "You'll like this one, I promise."
"Your promises mean nothing—."
"I swear on the River Styx," Kronos said, and his voice was tinted in a kind of casual arrogance, like this binding statement was simply an afterthought. Percy stared vacantly, his eyes fleetingly haunted with flickering doubt. "This is a suggestion that'll greatly benefit you and your...situation." Kronos brazenly eyed Percy's abdomen.
Skepticism fled Percy's mind, playing the promise in his head. Maybe Kronos was lying, and a suggestion that would "greatly benefit" him was subjective and consisted of lies. Gods were sneaky, and the father of gods was well-rehearsed in the language of duplicity. However, Percy had a feeling that Kronos wasn't lying...the vow was pretty hard to maneuver around.
"What do you mean?" Percy said hesitantly. His voice was all malice and poison, but there was also a hint of subdued inquiry.
"I swear on the River Styx that if you toss the adamant into the River Phlegethon, you will not regret it."
Tossing Percy's precious metal...into a river of fire...which will "greatly benefit" him?
Percy clutched his chest tighter. There was clear distrust in his sea-green eyes.
"The metal will melt under its waves," said Kronos neutrally. "And when it does, you will be able to meld it into whatever shape you see fit."
"There is no water in adamant," Percy said.
Kronos arched his eyebrow curiously. "When you melt steel with fire, you will also find that steel does not have water. Instead, a chemical reaction occurs where the surface of steel emits water."
"Why do I need to shape the adamant? I can't form a sword from it." It was obvious that Percy was not a sword-maker: wouldn't know how to shape the edges of a weapon, smooth its ends, sharpen its tips. It sounded easy in practice, but if he tried, at best, he'd probably form a blob of the metal. He wanted a master to form the sword. When he got out of this ashy prison, he'd get a cyclops (preferably Tyson) to do it.
"I am not asking you to create a sword." For some reason, Kronos sounded a lot like Luke. Smooth, charming, kind Luke, who'd taught Percy the ropes all those years ago. "Melt it, and control it. Force it on that bloody hole in your stomach. It'll harden, Perseus."
It will burn me, a voice echoed in Percy's head. But as Percy stared at the sizzling, rolling, red-orange waves, he knew that even though the River Phlegethon looked like the enemy...burning and hot and flammable...it was Percy's ally. It would not hurt him; it would be like a stinging balm, creating pain but also ultimately healing Percy.
"Dip it into the river," instructed Kronos, his voice both coaxing and rough.
And Percy did as he was instructed, as if he were in a trance.
He didn't think about how it'd been Kronos's army that'd given him this metal... He didn't think of how Kronos was telling him how to use adamant, the weapon Percy planned to use to kill Kronos. Percy Jackson did not think about any of these things, as he dropped the adamant into the river, and he watched as the metal sunk into the shallow river, watching it melt along with the rest of his doubts.
After five minutes with Kronos watching behind him, he started to whisper and murmur, "Move...upwards. Come to me now." He felt the liquid metal in the river, slopping back and forth, as he concentrated. It should've been mildly embarrassing with Luke—Kronos—next to him, but instead, it was oddly reassuring. The liquid, burning metal moved upward at his mind's command, fluid and moving in Tartarus's thick air.
He brought it closer...closer...closer.
The hole in Percy's chest was plugged in by adamant, the strongest metal in the world. Impenetrable, powerful, protected: that was how Percy felt. It burned his gut, but it was a pleasant burn.
He imagined this was how immortality felt.
His stomach area had been granted immunity, but the rest of him felt so fragile...so breakable. And how could Percy Jackson fight, live, survive, protect, without armor? Without immortality?
The strongest men were complimented by the best armor, and there was no greater armor than immortality.
Percy quickly muttered a few words, putting all his strength into them, and the ten-pound liquid metal jumped out of the river, landing splat in the center of Tartarus. It was disfigured: a sort of sphere-like shape that was rough and with sharp edges.
"Didn't you see, Perseus Jackson," Kronos began, "that I have your best interests at heart?"
His lips twitched. It was hard to admit, but Percy's stomach no longer hurt. He felt so powerful, and despite it all, Kronos had helped him with this step.
"How do I become immortal?" Percy finally asked, his eyes hooded, staring down at his stomach.
"Oh, how interesting. The little demigod wants a taste of power."
Yes, his mind said. "Never mind," Percy said, his tone contemplative. "I'm not blind; I won't follow all of your directions. Even if I followed what you said this one time, I'm not on your side. You just made a dumb mistake, helping the enemy, and I took advantage of it." He shrugged.
Kronos seemed to convulse in laughter. "Really now, Perseus Jackson? Helping the 'enemy'? You must be so clever, manipulating me."
His eyes seemed to say: We know who really tricked who.
"We can revisit this conversation, Perseus."
Kronos circled Percy like a predator, and Percy widened his stance, as if preparing for a fight.
But Kronos's form shifted, reminding Percy that the Titan wasn't truly here. Percy wanted to piece together the how and why of Kronos being here, but he was too focused on other matters.
"Think about my words," Kronos finally said, glitching there with a satisfied expression. "I don't expect you to shun your Olympian dogma so early on into our little game, but consider this: How much do you really know about your precious gods?"
Kronos blinked out for a second, and then, he was gone.
Percy stared at the jerky sitting at the place Kronos had been. He put a hand on his adamant-covered stomach, standing up. Kronos's words were running through his head, loud and mockingly curious: How much do you really know about your precious gods?
Percy didn't know, but he thought it was about time he found out.
A/N: You guys have the wittiest reviews. Seriously. If I get a review of any kind, my day is completely made.
