Chapter 16: Crossing the Styx
The DOA Recording Studios could be seen in the shadows of Valencia Boulevard.
It blended in so thoroughly with the rest of the city's drab architecture that even the most observant observer probably ignored it without a second thought. Its revolving glass doors reflected nothing except for the increasingly polluted sky and the monotonous traffic behind it.
However, as Percy, Annabeth, and Grover walked through it, the air changed. The waiting area was immaculate; it had polished black marble floors, velvet ropes directing visitors toward the front desk, and walls covered with gold records with the initials DOA. However, the most notable element of the waiting area was how dead it was.
There was no music playing in the background or hints of conversation. There was only a hushed, unnatural sound resonating from somewhere, hiding something vast just under the surface.
There was a man behind the front desk—at least, it looked like a man.
He was tall and thin, impeccably dressed in an Italian suit made of black silk. His skin glimmered with a waxy substance, and his fingers—long and bony—tapped on the desk, sounding out a rhythm to whatever musical score he was hearing but no one else could hear. As they approached, his eyes, which appeared to be set deep into his skull, blazing like two voids drawn on paper, flickered upward.
He let out a long breath. "Another batch of dead bottom feeders?" His tone conveyed a weariness wrought by centuries of boredom.
"We're alive," Percy said.
Charon looked at him and then back to the wall, slow and unimpressed. "That's even worse."
He returned to picking at the glossy black nails.
"Living souls are not allowed to cross the Styx." He shrugged. "Rules."
Percy edged forward and managed to smile in a moderate manner. He had learned a while ago that creatures like Charon tended to be most responsive when confidence was combined with a moderate dose of flattery.
"You're Charon," Percy said, even though it was not a question.
Charon's eyes flicked back to Percy; a flicker of what could be defined as curiosity crossed his face. "That I am."
He was the Charon, the Ferryman of the Dead, who determined who was able to make their way to the Underworld.
"You do all the hard work, I see," Percy said lightly. "You take care of thousands of souls each day, and there is no recognition, no promotions, and what do you have to show for it ? "
"You think I don't get paid well?
"I know you don't," Percy replied fluidly.
"I mean, look around this place—sure, the lobby is very nice but that's all a front, right? And you, someone of your importance, you shouldn't be wearing off-the-rack Italian suits."
Charon's left eye twitched. Percy could feel that Annabeth was practically burning a hole in his skull with her look, but he continued: "I mean you should be wearing high-end custom clothing from Milan. And those shoes…"
Percy shook his head with a fake look of empathy. "No offence, but are you seriously wearing last year's Gucci loafers?"
Charon stopped still. And suddenly, the tapping of his fingers came to a stop, too.
Charon's demeanor soured.
He stared down at his gleaming black shoes as if it were the first time he had questioned their value.
"They're this year's model," he mumbled, but his voice lacked conviction.
Percy leapt at the opportunity. "Look, we both know the gods aren't exactly known for generosity. You do all this work, and why? A lousy drachma per soul? You should have a mountain of gold, but instead..."
Percy let the implication hang in the air. Charon tapped the desk with his fingers again, his thin, tight lips pursed.
He was trying. He slipped his hand into his pocket and revealed the stack of gold drachmas they had gotten from Crusty's hoard.
He placed each one on the desk slowly and deliberately. They landed softly on the sleek surface and caught the light. Charon's eyes were glued to every single one.
"I doubt this will," Percy said casually, "help speed things up at all?"
They sat in silence for a moment.
And then, very subtly, Charon's lips turned up, forming what could have been called the faintest semblance of a smile.
"Now this," he said quietly, gathering the coins, "is a bribe worth considering."
He stood up with elegance, re-adjusting his suit, looking decidedly pleased with himself. With a snap of his fingers, the velvet ropes became unhooked from the frame, and the doors behind him slowly hissed open. There was a long,dark hallway which stretched on till quite a distance.
"This way," Charon announced, his voice sounding almost playful. "Try not to get lost."
Percy and Annabeth exchanged a look with Grover before moving in. He had won this round, but the smug hint in Charon's lip told him the Ferryman likely wasn't fooled for a moment.
Still, a win was a win.
—
Percy followed Charon into a poorly lit hallway; his footsteps bounced off the marble floor. The long hallway seemed to lead on forever, delving deeper underground with every step he took. The depth of the Underground made the air feel colder as they walked. Not the sharp cold of winter air outside, but a cold of deep tiredness that felt like the warmth of his body was being drawn away the closer they got to the Underworld.
Eventually, they came to an opening in the hallway that had opened into a large cave, and the first thing Percy experienced was the sheer weight of the cave.
It pressed on him - not physically, but in a way that made his mind feel sluggish and his limbs heavier. He swallowed hard.
The Underworld had a humanness about it that defied logic. It pulled. He felt a certain sensation and a feeling of humility when they approached a gigantic underground lake that lay before them. The black water rippled with a slow current. No light reflected off the surface. It wasn't just dark; it was not just dark - it was the absence of light, lack of even light, a black-hole void, so deep, Percy wouldn't have been able to say where the water ended and the air started.
The River Styx.
A chilly whisper brushed past his ear, causing him to flinch and turn sharply—but there was nothing there, just the barest wavering in the air like a heatwave except cold.
The voices.
It took him a moment to properly hear them—whispers from the water, low and mournful, drifting through the fissures of his brain like tendrils of mist. Thousands and thousands of voices layered upon one another, each one a separate entity but merging into an unending, mournful hum.
"Don't listen to them," Annabeth whispered beside him, her voice tight. "They're the lost souls. If you listen too long..."
There was no need for her to finish. Deep down he knew that listening was the same as joining.
Grover made a tiny noise of distress, clutching tightly onto his reed pipes with white knuckles. Percy didn't blame him. The river wasn't just dark—it was living. Things were moving underneath the water—shadows curled and shifting, tendrils slowly reaching toward the shore, outside the water; eager, hungry.
A boat awaited them at the water's edge. It was long and lean, made of black iron that appeared to soak up the dusky light.
The prow was shaped like a skull, grinning wickedly, and the periphery of the deck was lined with torches that flared an ethereal green. It exuded a feeling of finality—the type of boat you stepped into knowing you would not be returning from.
Charon stepped aboard first, with the ease of someone who had been doing it for millennia. He turned and waved lazily. "Well? Get on. I don't have all eternity."
Percy hesitated only for a second before stepping gently onboard and felt the boat sway with his weight. Annabeth followed next stiffly as if she was forcing herself forward. Grover, however, waited on the edge as his eyes flew back and forth between the water and the boat.
Charon sighed. "Satyr, I don't have time for your existential crisis. Get on or don't. Either way, I'm leaving."
With a strangled whimper, Grover leapt into the boat and landed with a soft thump. Grover quickly crawled away from the edge with his back pressed as far as he could be from the river water.
Charon rolled his eyes and stamped his foot on the deck. The boat groaned and moved, trembling like a living thing, before it began to glide forward.
As they left the shore, the air thickened and the whispering increased in volume and swirled around them like the wind in dead trees. The boat sliced through the surface easily, and the ripples disappeared almost too quickly. Theo did not see anything beneath the surface but felt them—things squirming just out of sight, brushing against the hull, and waiting.
Beside him, Annabeth stood stiffly. "It is worse than I thought," she muttered under her breath.
Percy didn't disagree.
As they drifted further,the shoreline of the Underworld came into view. Craggy rocks and black volcanic sand stretched inland about a hundred yards to the base of a high stone wall, which marched off in either direction as far as we could see. A sound came from somewhere nearby in the green gloom, echoing off the stones-the howl of a large animal.
The dead began to disembark. A woman holding a little girl's hand. An old man and an old woman hobbling along arm in arm. A boy no older than Percy was, shuffling silently along in his gray robe.
At that moment, he felt a pulse of something dark, something ancient, wash over him. His fingers twitched at his side.
It would be so easy. He could lose himself in their veil of entrapment. He could disrupt the very fabric of this place. If he concentrated, he could find the right threads, woven right into the very fabric of the Underworld, and just…
The pressure in his head swelled and increased. The whispers shouted and coiled around him, they were hands, they were pulling, they were beckoning— A sharp elbow to his ribs broke the spell.
"Percy."
Annabeth's voice was tense, insistent.
He blinked, vision blurry. The river looked different. Or at least he felt different, because, for a moment, he had been looking at something else—something deeper. A huge tangled web, the river filled with golden writhing threads, twisting down through the heart of the Underworld, tying everything together, connecting everything.
The pressure faded, but the knowledge remained. Annabeth was still staring at him, her grey eyes' sharp edges still focused inwardly. "You alright?"
Percy exhaled slowly. "Yeah." His voice sounded scratchy. "I'm fine."
She looked far from convinced.
The boat proceeded slowly through the limitless expanse of the river.
Charon stood at the bow without speaking, drawing the rudder, his skeletal fingers curled around the pole.
He didn't turn his head, but Percy could feel those eyes resting on him.
Charon knew.
But if the Ferryman had an opinion, he kept it to himself.
—--
End of Chapter 16
Author's Note: Not much really happens in this chapter. Just a bit of plot. Hope you enjoy it. Thoughts?