The all-encompassing noise of the crowd falls silent the instant Orpheus makes his choice, and for a single moment, in the time it takes to blink, he thinks it might just work out. But when Persephone grins as she gestures for the sliding door to be opened, and Hades slowly backs away, a sneer never leaving his face, Orpheus realizes he's been played for a fool.
He'd hoped, foolishly, that the 50-50 shot Hades had offered—Eurydice, or his death—would at least be a fair chance, and with any luck they'd both be back in time to split the pizza Razoreus had shared before he left. But the shades bay for blood as the door slowly opens to reveal the dreaded Furies, each equipped with armor and weapons. Backing away, Orpheus catches Hades' eyes and sees him gleefully shrug, as if to ask what he'd expected.
The Furies eye him hungrily, taking their time in sizing him up, and Orpheus glances at the second, unopened door on the off-chance Eurydice might be behind it after all. If she's locked away, he thinks in desperation, maybe she can escape, or help him in some other way. Even if it came to nothing and he only got a glimpse of her before they tore him to shreds, it would be worth it to see her once more.
When the door doesn't move and the Furies ready their weapons, chainsaws and knives gleaming in the smoke and firelight, Orpheus knows now that he'd had no chance from the start. The game was rigged, and his choice wouldn't have mattered. It was merely a prelude to his execution. The rulers of the Underworld had planned this out from the moment the otherworldly skateboard had found him, streaking out of the darkness like it was waiting for him to arrive. In hindsight, he should have suspected it was too perfect a coincidence.
With impending doom approaching, Orpheus knows he can't trust the EBN board to let him get away. His only shot is his Lyre-Axe Guitar, but as he raises it and tries to play, the instrument's only response is fragmented, discordant notes akin to microphone feedback. Desperate, he paws at the faulty guitar, feeling its out-of-tune cacophony in the frantic beating of his heart, but the Furies are on him in an instant. And in an instant, there's no more time.
As efficient as they are ruthless, the Furies wrench the instrument out of Orpheus's hands where it clatters uselessly to the floor, dragging him away like he weighs nothing before binding him firmly to a pole with a steel cable. The leader of the Furies scowls at him beneath her helmet, taking him by the shirt before looking into his eyes, and off to the side Persephone smiles at the spectacle.
Orpheus blinks, swallows and stares his death in the face.
In the moments before the Fury sneers and forces his head down, in the seconds between breaths as her cohort lowers her chainsaw towards his exposed neck, Orpheus sees, in his mind's eye, the road he took to get himself here. Much of his life goes by in an instant, events and people and music all blurring together: his passion for music, his first band, and making a name for himself among the Grey Zone populace. Somewhere among the memories are vague impressions of his parents passing away, but he can't remember how or why, and he drifts in an indistinct fog.
But then he remembers Eurydice, and his mind is crystal-clear. He sees how they first met, how they fell in love and stayed in love, how Eurydice would dance at his shows and garner more applause than Orpheus himself from his calloused hands. He recalls how his bandmates would keep an eye on the couple as they navigated the treacherous Grey Zone streets to where Orpheus called home, and the nights spent with no one else but the two of them, tangled beneath each other on rough bedsheets. (If he was late for a gig the following evening, even Linus didn't complain that much on seeing him so happy.) He remembers Eurydice's precise movements, her playful smile, and her feet worn-out from dancing.
Most of all, Orpheus remembers Eurydice's passion for life as they discussed everything from the weather to his music to plans for the future, the conviction in her voice and the love in her eyes never wavering for an instant. Every inch of her was so vivid—so alive. Until the wedding, and what should have been the happiest day in both their lives.
Instead, the wedding and the events that followed are burned into his psyche, and Orpheus's mind turns in on itself with regret. The last time he'd seen Eurydice alive, she was dancing to the lyre they'd been given as a housewarming present, and he'd been utterly mesmerized by its ethereal, otherworldly tones.
He hadn't seen her die.
Instead, Orpheus had looked up at her scream and run to the edge of the building she'd fallen from, thrust over the side by the weapon used to end her life. By the time he and the guests had caught up, Hades' goons were already fleeing with her body through the city streets. It was a mix of his Lyre-Axe's power and sheer luck that got him through the winding EBN corridors to confront Hades and Persephone, demanding a chance for Eurydice's release—and when he'd been given a fleeting chance to save her, he'd turned too soon, just as the network had planned. The door to the underworld had closed in his face, Eurydice going with it, and Orpheus knows he has only himself to blame for how it all turned out.
It was too late to save her at the wedding or in the throes of the underworld, and it's far too late for Orpheus to save himself now. And yet, as Orpheus reflects on all that happened then and since, he wonders, still, if something could have been done to save Eurydice.
He knows he'd die for that chance.
He's dying now, for it.
In the moments before his death, Orpheus looks back, and he sees what could have been.
The Gibsonian Lyre-Axe is all he can see, all he can hear as his fingers pluck the strings, cautiously at first, and then with confidence as the futuristic guitar springs to life. In the back of his mind, he's still a bit skeptical of Linus's tall tale of Jimi Hendrix seeking to unlock new realms of human consciousness—his manager's a master at the art of the sale, after all. But if anything could do even half of what he claimed, music would have to be the key. And the more he plays, the more Orpheus wonders if Linus was on to something.
Power seems to emanate from the instrument that Orpheus can't describe in words, only in music, thoughts, and feelings. The melodies flow through him, invigorating him, and with his eyes closed and his mind tuned in to the shape of the Lyre-Axe, Orpheus can feel potential pulsing within him. He doesn't want to stop playing, he realizes; he could live in this moment forever, Eurydice by his side.
As his lover's—now his wife's—name crosses his mind Orpheus glances up, expecting to see her dancing to the ethereal tones as she had seconds before. But Eurydice isn't there, and he looks further ahead to see her spinning with vigor on a rooftop platform, away from the crowd and the tables, and with quite the view to showcase her movements. Orpheus smiles and almost—almost—turns back to the music when a movement catches his eye.
One of the dead-eyed, pallid wedding caterers that Orpheus had assumed Linus hired approaches Eurydice, a tray of food piled on the plate. She takes a snack, chews, and heaves over the side, retching, and Orpheus's initial worry at bad food turns into immediate concern as the man grabs Eurydice in the process of recovery. Eurydice fights him off and delivers a slap to the face, but a second man approaches from the side, pulling his cohort back. He reaches for something in his pocket, and all goes still.
There's a weapon in his hand, pointed directly at Eurydice, and Orpheus cannot breathe. His Lyre-Axe is instantly forgotten, dropping out of his hands to clatter on the floor, and he races for them full-throttle. In the seconds between his frantic steps the caterer pulls the trigger, bathing Eurydice in unfiltered, deadly light.
Breathing hard and running harder, Orpheus charges into the weapon's path, his arms outstretched to the woman he loves. He has just enough time to grasp and thrust Eurydice towards safety, towards the crowd of wedding guests, before the gun in the caterer's hands looses a burst of raw energy.
As he drowns in waves of radiation that only the dead can survive, Orpheus's eyes glaze over; his heart quickens, then slows to a stop. Somewhere he can hear his own voice crying out as he topples back and over the rooftop edge. Somewhere another voice—Eurydice—is calling his name. He tries to reassure her, but cannot. He's too far gone.
But as he falls, he can see that she's safe, and that's all that matters to Orpheus.
Eurydice, he thinks, and all goes dark.
The EBN corridors are winding and drab, every hallway looking the same, but after passing several blank-eyed shades, Orpheus eventually finds the room that the secretary had pointed out to him. Styx Room 3A is an unassuming place where the whirring of a paper shredder fills the space with noise, never stopping for rest. Orpheus peeks inside and sees massive piles of shredded paper filling half the room, piles of documents on the other side, and a man bent over what looks to be an improvised, half-finished game of golf, the 'hole' carefully folded squares of paper.
He knocks on the counter to get his attention, but the man is focused on his game. "Just leave it on the counter, please," he says without looking up, and Orpheus almost obeys without thinking. But his drive to find Eurydice is too strong to be denied, and if this man works here, perhaps he can help him look for her.
"Okay, but first I've got a question," he tries. But the man has turned back to his golf game, and the paper shredder's far too loud to hear Orpheus's calls. He tries to get his attention a few more times to no avail, and with a sigh, Orpheus gives up. He places his papers on the counter and walks away, hoping to find aid elsewhere in the strange facility.
It's several minutes before Apollo remembers there was a voice at the door. Working in the same room for so long makes your brain fuzzy even if your memories are in order, and if he didn't have the promise of retirement in the Elysian Fields Golf and Country Club, he's not sure it would be worth it, to be honest. Grumbling over another hard day's work, he takes the files, reads the name on the folder, and his eyes widen in surprise and sorrow.
There, in black-and-white, are the memory files of Orpheus Hellenbach—Apollo's only son. Shutting off the paper shredder for a moment, the silence necessary to process the sudden wave of grief, Apollo straightens himself. "Calliope," he calls, voice heavy, "you'd better get in here."
His wife enters the room, curious about the interruption, and he wordlessly shows her the papers. The moment she reads the name, Calliope's face falls and she presses a hand to her chest to compose herself. "Oh, Orpheus," she finally sighs, pulling her husband into a hug that's swiftly returned.
"Wonder how he got here," Apollo muses. "Knowing Orpheus it was probably a skate stunt gone wrong. I just hope it wasn't too painful."
Calliope nods in agreement. "I was hoping we wouldn't see his name for a while yet. Our son had so much he wanted to do in life—I do hope he got to make more of the music he loved," Calliope says, wistfully thinking of her son's passion and talent, even if she didn't quite understand why rock music had to be so loud.
"You think he found someone special before the end," Apollo asks with a shy smile, and Calliope nods. "I certainly hope so. Oh, why did he have to die so soon? Imagining him working for Hades…" She trails off, unable to finish the thought.
"It's unfortunate," Apollo agrees, but then he turns businesslike. "But orders are orders, and work is work. We'd better shred his memory now before it's too late for us to go through with it—at least then he won't know anything better."
With a heavy heart, Calliope agrees—the last thing either of them wants is to be caught shirking their duty, especially so close to retirement. The tedium of office work has never suited the Muse or her husband, and the looming threat of 100,000 years of word processing instead of a guaranteed retirement package is too much to risk. She hands Orpheus's papers over, and while Apollo's hands shake as he shreds them to pieces, the deed is done.
Past three corridors and down another, Orpheus thinks he sees someone who can help, a man in a finely pressed suit. He's about to call out to him when he suddenly stops cold; a sudden wave of dizziness strikes him. Groaning in surprise and pain as a headache starts to build, Orpheus catches himself on a nearby wall, willing for it to pass. Memories suddenly flash before his eyes and are gone, like sand falling through clasped hands no matter how hard he tries to retain them. Eurydice's memory is sharp, vivid, and the very last to go.
In moments, the wave of nausea passes, and the man stands up, eyes bright and confused. He doesn't know where he is, or who he is, or even what he's doing here, but maybe he can find someone that would know. He sees a man in a suit and waves him over.
"Excuse me," he asks the EBN producer, "Do you know where I am?"
The producer is efficient in his work, and ascertains the young man's musical talent with a glance at the strange instrument he carries with him. He's about to set him up alongside Hades' coveted Fiberglass Ensemble before he notices something crucial about the new arrival—he's still alive. The latter is quickly taken care of with a concentrated barrage of hypno-pulses from the EBN's latest technology, while the Lyre-Axe is deemed too melodic and raw, too dangerous, to be used on-air.
Instead, the young man is given a plastic recorder and told to play as directed—toneless, arrhythmic, and completely dull, just as Hades commands. It feels wrong, somehow, but he adjusts quickly; this is his job, after all, and he's been told to do it well. After a practice session, he's got the hang of it, and soon he plays for all he's worth. A highlight of his EBN work is playing for Hades himself as he dances with the rising star of the network, a young girl who Persephone says arrived shortly before he did.
Something about her seems familiar, he thinks, as she catches him staring at her in the midst of dancing. There's sadness in her eyes, though he isn't sure why. He wishes he could remember. But orders are orders, work is work, and the young man has a job to do, so he plays on.
"And remember," Hades croons, "don't look back." With the conditions made, the God of the Dead lights up a cigarette and barely gives Orpheus a glance, and Orpheus knows Hades is setting him up. It makes him more determined than ever to prove the King of the Underworld wrong, and he responds with a confident "You bet" that, despite his bravado, he can't quite make himself feel. Orpheus himself had pointed out that he and Eurydice would both be back here soon enough, and maybe that was the only reason they'd let him have this chance.
It's even harder to keep his anxiety tempered as he's escorted down the soundstage hallway, where the EBN producer stops for him, waiting with a sharklike grin. There's no sign of Eurydice, despite Hades' promise, and Orpheus knows turning around now would doom them both.
"You are one lucky sucker," the producer sneers, and Orpheus bristles as he hears movement behind him. "Gee, thanks a lot. Is she there?"
"Why don't you turn around and find out," he taunts. Orpheus barely resists the urge to do just that as he hears the morbidly clinical noise of what sounds, to his trained ears, like a bag being unzipped right behind him. He can't turn to confirm it, but there are ways around being unable to see, he realizes.
"Very funny," Orpheus responds, shooting the producer a glare before calling out loudly in case Eurydice is farther away than she sounds.
"Eurydice? Are you there?" Orpheus tries to reach behind him, longing to touch her hand, but the producer stops him with a firm grasp on his arm that makes him flinch away. But in a second, Eurydice responds, and Orpheus's heart soars with hope.
"I'm here," Eurydice affirms. But her voice sounds unsure and off-kilter, like she's just recovered from drowning. Orpheus can't see her, can't dare to see her, but he can guess her brief stint being dead hasn't been kind to her. As long as he obeys the conditions set—as long as he doesn't look back—they'll have plenty of time to become reacquainted with the land of the living together.
"Let's go," Orpheus says, and he can only hope that she's following him. The producer lets them pass, though not without gesturing for a cameraman to walk in front of them, filming while walking backwards to capture every step of the journey along the way. Orpheus pays him little mind and starts walking, wading in the Styx's hallways buried in shredded paper—shredded minds, he remembers. He can only hope those are Eurydice's footsteps behind him and not merely the echoes of his own.
As far away as he is, he can't hear or see the producer's wry grin as they leave, least of all his voice. "See you soon," he says as he slams the door shut.
Orpheus glances to the side at the sudden noise, but keeps walking. Every few feet he wants to stop and check behind him, if only to ensure Eurydice is keeping up, but he knows if he turns he's a dead man alongside her. His pace quickens the further they get away from the EBN soundstage, but there's only so many identical grey hallways he can take before Orpheus feels the urge to turn around again—anything to break the monotony.
Instead he focuses on other things, like the security cameras that line the hallways. Hades and Persephone are surely watching their journey, and Orpheus is sorely tempted to give them a piece of his mind. But as he walks he hears Eurydice running to catch up behind him—or so he thinks, he hopes—and Orpheus moves to match her pace, unsure of what would happen if they made contact before escaping. It would be just like Hades to add in a loophole.
Finally, the cameraman moves behind them to film the walk out, and a door to the outside world opens before them as if by magic. Orpheus approaches cautiously, not ready to exit the threshold yet, but the fresh air is invigorating and irresistible. On the other side of the EBN door lies life and hope, and nearly everyone from the wedding party is there, looking up as Orpheus peers through. Linus has his hands in his pockets, Razoreus stands off to the side, Scratch is somewhere among the middle, and he wonders how long they were all waiting for him. They won't have to wait much longer for Eurydice.
With his path clear, Orpheus takes a deep breath and steps out in full view, relief and joy making his heart swell, but his attention is drawn as Scratch steps forward to peer at something or someone behind him.
"Eurydice," Scratch cries, and Orpheus almost turns on instinct—but catches himself. Hades had said she could go if they were both out, and he's barely beyond the length of the door. If Orpheus turned now, he'd see her at the threshold and never again. Tingling with adrenaline, he runs the rest of the way out and nearly crashes into the assembled guests, but even then, he doesn't dare to turn until he feels a soft hand on his shoulder.
"Orpheus," Eurydice says, and he turns, and she is smiling, giddy, hugging him like there's no tomorrow. He sweeps her into his arms, returning the hug, and the guests applaud both his courage and his successful rescue attempt.
"Axel is never gonna believe this," Razoreus says with a grin, and the others cheer in agreement.
Scratch gives Orpheus a friendly slap on the back as she walks alongside them. "Orpheus, you and Eurydice made history! Nobody else has ever gone on PTR and made it out in one piece before."
"Not only that, your love brought Eurydice back from the brink of death itself. It's completely unprecedented—and just think of the publicity," adds Linus. Orpheus can only imagine the amount of dollar signs his manager sees, and while he wouldn't say no to more cash, at the moment all he cares about is Eurydice herself. She leans against him for support, still dazed from her time in the Underworld, and he knows what she needs most right now is rest.
"Let's get you home," Orpheus says, taking her trembling hand in his. They wave goodbye to Linus and the guests, and after another long walk to the nest of shipping containers the Grey Zoners call home, the lovers are stationed in Orpheus's bed, exhausted. Sleep comes quickly, and when Orpheus wakes to find Eurydice is still there, her heart still beating, it almost feels like a dream.
And in a way, it is. They have a week—a blessed week—of time to themselves to bask in wedded bliss, without any commitments except one another. But the masses are clamoring for a concert, and between wedding expenses and the pressing need for food, Orpheus can't ignore his music or his band for much longer. His newfound fame does bring perks, and Linus has promised to broadcast his show to the entire Grey Zone.
With that in mind, Eurydice chooses to stay home, and while Orpheus is disappointed, he understands. She's been listless since her recovery, and with the defeat Hades' network suffered, there's no doubt in his mind they'd try to 'recruit' her at one of his concerts. Orpheus's place is likely her safest bet.
After checking the doors are locked, Eurydice gives her husband a kiss. "I'll catch you on TV," she says with a smile, and Orpheus nods. "When I sing about love, light, and rock and roll, know it's to you."
Eurydice watches him go, and, after a while, she turns on the television set. There, just as Linus promised, is Orpheus, her Orpheus, singing even better than he had before they were married. With the Shredders by his side and Lyre-Axe in his hands, glowing and beautiful, Eurydice is enraptured in Orpheus's world of rock music, skateboarding, and self-expression. She feels energized and alive from the exhilarating, heavy beats, and is just about to get up and head out when the feed suddenly cuts to static.
As Eurydice watches, perturbed, the EBN logo fills the screen, and she goes slack as soon as she sees it. Her eyes become filmy and glazed, her breathing shallow and even, and soon Queen Persephone is there, her gaze imperious and her tone soothing and soft. "Praise the Ray," she intones, eyes never wavering from Eurydice's. The dancer doesn't blink, doesn't move.
When her usual spiel is finished, the underworld queen entreats the viewers to follow along with her. And at Persephone's command, Eurydice breathes in deep, and then out for a final time before letting herself go, giving herself to the cathode ray. Her soul leaves quietly and eagerly.
Halfway through the setlist, Linus stops the show early and cites an emergency. He pulls Orpheus backstage, eyes wide and terrified, to where the phone sits off the hook. "I-it's for you," Linus manages, and Orpheus picks up the phone and holds it to his ear.
"You were right, Orpheus," Hades says on the end of the line. "She'd be back soon enough."
Orpheus doesn't like to sleep anymore. He finds it hard to sit still nowadays, and he burns leftover energy skateboarding in unlit parking garages, watching other bands and ignoring the muscle memory that compels him to climb onstage too, or chatting with the Grey Zoners about whatever comes to mind. On good days he'll even go to his concerts on time, pointedly ignoring his Lyre-Axe's performance issues and Linus's insistence he make keeping appointments a habit and not a rare event. On those days, he can smile and laugh and skate and, if he's lucky, feel like nothing is wrong at all except for a few guitar mishaps, an empty room and unmade bed, and living off whatever he or other Grey Zoners can scrounge up.
But he can't hide from himself on the bad days, especially at night. Nighttime is when the curfew's enforced and the Grey Zone is still and quiet aside from the occasional firepit burning outside, flames crackling into the darkness. Night is when Orpheus, despite his best efforts to chase the numbness inside him away, heads home inescapably tangled in his thoughts and memories. Night is when, with no one to go home to, he stares at a tenderly preserved photo of Eurydice until he finally falls asleep.
On the good days, if Orpheus is lucky, he goes to sleep and dreams of nothing at all. On the bad days, he dreams of turning around and losing Eurydice in an instant, door slamming shut in his face and opening to a solid wall that resists any entry point. On other nights, he dreams of her scream from the wedding as he rushes to her aid. But while in real life he was merely too late, in his dreams he is too slow, getting further and further away the more he runs as she falls, endlessly, from the rooftop. No matter how she figures into the dream, he is always unable to save her, and he wakes in a cold sweat, arms reaching out for what isn't there.
After a certain point he could almost say he's used to it, but that would be a lie. Each time he dreams of Eurydice and his failure, it only sharpens the acid in his stomach, the turmoil clouding his mind, and the greyness that settles in his entire being. Orpheus sometimes wishes he could sleep and not wake up at all, as even in his worst nightmares at least she is there.
He doesn't talk about it to anyone. How could they understand that the dreams are bad, but the waking world is worse? It's been a year since Eurydice's death and his failed rescue attempt, and that, according to Linus, is time enough to stop living in the past and move on. Orpheus trusts his manager with many things—his finances, booking performances and keeping to schedules, and knowing the right people to call in a crisis. But he knows Linus couldn't understand the loss he feels unless he experienced it himself, and Orpheus wouldn't even wish that on Hades.
Today starts out not bad, as days go. He rises early enough that Axel and the others manage to coax him out to skate, and are kind enough not to mention how long it takes Orpheus to commit to the decision. Once he's busy shredding, the wind in his face, he almost feels free, even after he misses a turn and crashes headlong into a wall. Razoreus and Scratch help him up, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he has a gig tonight, but he ignores it. Thrashing parking garages gets his blood pumping more than music these days, no thanks to his Lyre-Axe shorting in and out seemingly at random.
Given their penchant for rule-breaking, Orpheus is surprised when, upon coming across a door he's never seen before, all three of the Grey Zoners warn him against going in. When tales of its high security and people going missing don't deter him—he's sure he's snuck into worse places—Axel vehemently insists that it's truly dangerous, an assured death sentence, and Scratch shows off a raw, festering scar on her neck to prove his point. Orpheus isn't sure whether the need for a special, near-mythical skateboard that could withstand whatever horrors lay inside is genuine or an attempt to change the subject. But the idea intrigues him, and he thinks about it all the way to his concert.
The setlist passes in a blur, shredding guitars, throbbing bass, and heavy drumbeats now feeling empty and hollow. He vaguely remembers a time when music was everything to him, that and Eurydice, but that dream seems to have died with her. His moroseness isn't helped when his Lyre-Axe starts acting up again mid-show, the bursts of feedback causing havoc among the band and the audience. Orpheus reminds himself that they came to see him, and manages to get the guitar working again with a few quick tune-ups.
The concert is saved, and ends with applause, but Orpheus barely hears it. He dismisses Linus's concern and growing anger with apathy, focusing entirely on fixing the Lyre-Axe even when it's clear no one, including him, knows how it works. His manager tells him about an upcoming audition for a dance company, which doesn't register at all until Linus forces him to face him and repeat the date and time. Even then, it doesn't quite stick, and Orpheus leaves the club in a dispirited mood.
He watches a street band play and boarders shredding for a while in vague hopes of lighting a spark inside, but when nothing comes, he kicks some rubble aside and heads for home without looking back. Razoreus surprises him with boxes of contraband cereal, and he takes one in exchange for giving the boy a cassette tape of his greatest hits, something he'd promised long ago and forgotten about. With hunger no longer a priority and relief from his paid obligations, Orpheus heads to bed and engages in his nightly ritual.
With Eurydice's face next to his, he sleeps, and this time his dreams are different. He finds himself half-buried in sand somewhere along a shoreline, squinting into the setting sun and the lapping of waves to see a woman. From a distance, she looks like Eurydice, but as Orpheus goes to meet her he sees it's Persephone, Hades' wife and queen. His dream-self embraces her all the same, and she returns his hug, nuzzling into his shoulder like the Queen of the Underworld, and her domain of death, was the one he loved all along.
"I love you," Orpheus says. Persephone doesn't answer, but smiles, strokes his chin, and fades from the dreamscape as he feels a soft hand on his shoulder. Orpheus turns to see Eurydice, her face sad and accusing and curious all at once.
"What does that mean," she asks, and Orpheus tries to speak, but nothing comes out but sand, falling like an hourglass into the mists between them. Abruptly, the dream shifts to the front of the garage Scratch and Axel warned him against, and there's mist beyond that door too. The door is half-open like an invitation, and Orpheus jolts awake, panting and clutching at his throat. The dream itself may have been murky, but the feelings are clear: He's running out of time and needs to take action, before it's too late.
Mythical skateboard or not, he decides, he's trying that garage. It doesn't take long to find it and slip in; just as in his dream, the door waits for him, half-open. Inside is an elevator covered with graffiti, every inch of the structure warning interlopers to turn back or risk death. Orpheus steps inside, looks around, and feels his blood run cold at the EBN security camera on the ceiling.
He has just enough time to curse before the inner door opens and a hand clamps around his throat, its owner a hulking, snarling man who growls in his face before lifting him up like he weighs nothing. Barely able to breathe and fading fast, Orpheus tries to pry his hand off to no avail before taking out his Lyre-Axe. Head spinning and seeing stars, he tries to turn it on and strum a chord—any chord—but the device shorts out, the hulking guard squeezes tighter, and the instrument drops from his hands. The pain is beyond anything he's ever felt, and Orpheus has only enough time to look his assailant in the eyes before everything fades.
With a grunt, Cerberus hauls Orpheus's body away like a broken doll, the Lyre-Axe forgotten on the floor. When Orpheus doesn't return from his late-night jaunt and Linus ventures out for questioning, all Axel can do is shake his head. "We told him so," he says bitterly.
The sideways memories disappear in a flash as the Fury's chainsaw finishes its slow descent to cut into Orpheus's neck.
Orpheus's blood spatters on her helmet as the shades cheer his demise, and there is no more time to look back, or forwards.
This is his end.
But he has time enough in the moment of his death, as his head leaves his body and his soul goes with it, to call out to the one he's risked everything for, no matter the outcome.
He's dying now for that risk, but for her sake he'd do it all again.
Eurydice, Orpheus thinks, and all goes dark.
