Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Perseus, Percy, Achilles Jackson-Wayne had not been called such for a long time. Even to most of his closest friends, his chosen family, he was only Perseus Achilles Jackson. The third Wayne had long since been forgotten. Only to be remembered by a grieving, drunken, failure of a father, and a brother too busy with work to even know his brother, his first, brilliant brother, was nothing more than a gravestone. Yes, Percy was sure that the world of mortals had forgotten him. He was fine with that. A hero, idolized by some in the world of myths and legends, and a ghost in the world of men.

He was fine with that. Back when family only meant more to mourn and it’d all be his fault. His fault because he wasn’t strong enough to kill the monsters before they killed his family. His fault because it was the monsters that smelled him, his demigod, child of the big three, scent. His fault. Just like Bianca and Beckendorf and Silena and-so many, so many, countless more. Because he was responsible for them-wasn’t he? He had the most experiences, quests, he was the child of the prophecy, he was a child of one of the big three. And he let those kids, his friends, his family , he let them down and he let them die .

He let the Wayne household believe that he died. He let his brother, who probably didn’t bother to show up to his funeral either, and his dad who probably wasn’t sober enough to even tell believe he died when a car swerved into a ditch and was struck by lightning and exploded. He was fine with that. They probably were too. But Alfred. Alfred didn’t deserve to believe he was dead. He wondered if he had a headstone. He hoped it would be next to Jason's.

Jason . The only reason he even bothered to return.

How would the mortal world react to him returning? How would his family? His family from before the mess of monsters and wars and Tarturas. How would they react to not a son returning, but a soldier forged in blood, and golden dust, and the ichor of immortals?

⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰
September 5, 2010
Camp Half-Blood, NY
A Month and 4 Days After the End of the Second Giantomachy
7:45 AM

“Percy.”

“Perseus.”

“ Percy ”

“Oh my gods-Percy wake up.”

Percy groaned, blinking sleepily up at the figure above him. “Mmm…Hey wise girl,” his throat was dry and scratchy, his voice horrid, and his hair messy in the way that was his signature look.

She laughed, a beautiful sound, in Percy's humble, never biased opinion. “Hey seaweed brain, nice pillow you’ve got there.”

“Hmm?” He lifted himself up slightly to view the pillow, before flopping back down with a dramatic huff. “Shat up…” His voice muffled by the pillow.

She giggled this time, different from her loud and lively laugh but still just as beautiful. Golden hair pulled back into a swishing ponytail, “You still drool when you sleep,” she teased, voice full of mirth.

“...Evidently..” Percy muttered into his drool-covered pillow.

“C’mon fish prince, breakfast is ending soon.” Annabeth smirked as she left the cabin, the door swinging shut behind her back.

Percy hummed noncommittally as he stumbled through getting ready. It wasn't like he could stomach much anyways, ever since…

Ever since what? He couldn’t remember. That’s weird. He heard laughter from outside his cabin. New campers probably.

He opened his door, rubbing sleep from his eyes to see flames. Not the warm flames of the campfire, or the homely flames of Hestia's hearth, but dark and red and burning flames. The flames of the deepest pits of the underworld. The laughter turned to screams and the ground became a churning, suffocating dust. He tried to run, to help, but his feet were stuck in the earth, which had turned into a thick, gritty substance that pulled him down. It wasn't drowning, not in water. It was drowning in earth and ash and dust. Every breath he took felt like a mouthful of grit and the smell of sulfur and fire. He was back in the deepest pit. He was back where no humans are meant to tread and monsters thrive.

He fought to pull himself free, but the ground held him fast. He was helpless. The screams around him were no longer the happy shrieks of campers, but the agonized wails of lost souls and the guttural roars of monsters. He saw figures moving through the swirling red haze, faces he knew—Leo, Jason, his Jason—but their eyes were hollow, their skin like ash. They pointed at him, their silent accusations louder than any scream. He was responsible for them, wasn’t he? He let them down and he let them die. He failed.

And then he saw her. Her name was on the tip of his tongue, a desperate prayer. She was falling, a look of pure terror on her face as she reached for him, her eyes wide with fear as the dust and fire consumed her. He tried to call her name, but all that came out was a choking sob. He was losing her again. He couldn’t save her. He was sinking. He was useless.

“Percy,” A voice pleaded for him.

He gasped, shooting up in bed, a cold sweat drenching his clothes. His heart hammered against his ribs like a war drum (No it didn’t, war drums were accompanied by the ringing metal of swords meeting claws and-)

“Percy,” The voice was calm, reassuring, safe . It wasn’t real- it couldn’t be- Why would anything ever be safe? He didn’t deserve safety. Bianca did. Ethan did. Leo did. Not him because he failed them and they could’ve been safe and alive if only he’d-

The taste of dust still lingered on his tongue. He looked up, his eyes wide and panicked, to see a blurry figure standing over him. He reached for Riptide.

“Percy,” his name, repeated again. Calm and soft by the figure standing over him. The figure became clear, and the world snapped back into place. Oh gods. It wasn't the red light of the pit, but the soft golden light of his cabin. The screams had been in his head. And the person standing over him wasn’t a ghost. But they almost were. He almost lost someone again at his hands and it was all his fault-

The figure cupped his face, forcing his eyes to look at theirs. Annabeth’s face was etched with concern but didn’t have a trace of pity on it. Just understanding. Her eyes searched his face before meeting his.

Silvery-gray meeting blueish green oceans. One and the same. Two turbulent storms of different nature, yet so similar, meeting at the horizon. Stormy, intelligent, understanding clouds meeting the conflicted, scared, and scarred seas.

“It was just a dream, you’re okay. You’re at camp.”

Camp . It was home wasn’t it? The only stable thing in the sea of chaos known as his life. It was supposed to be safe. That didn’t stop Hera from taking him from his very own cabin. From taking nine months of his life.

He shook the thoughts away. At least he didn’t scream. That’d scare the other campers. The new campers. Who hadn’t suffered through two warsbecause of him.

At some point, he’d learned not to scream or thrash from his nightmares, his dreams of the future, of fate.

⊱✿⊰ Tim POV ⊱✿⊰
June, 2010
Wayne Manor, gotham
4 days Until Percy’s 5th death anniversary

It’s been four days since the planning for Perseus Achilles Jackson-Wayne’s fifth death anniversary began, and the Batcave has been a graveyard of unspoken grief. The air is thick with it, each brother a silent mourner. It's a silence Tim has learned to understand, a language of clenched fists and averted eyes. But now, with the anniversary of Percy’s supposed death just days away, it’s a language he can’t ignore. The whole family seems to be in a state of stasis. Dick has been spending more and more time at the manor, a silent anchor in their collective storm. He’s meticulously arranging blue chocolate-chip cookies on a plate, his hands moving with a practiced grace, a rhythm of ritual and memory. His smile is a fragile thing, a piece of glass that threatens to shatter at any moment. Tim knows he’s remembering a boy who loved blue food, a boy who never got to eat enough of it. Tim wants to tell him it’s okay to not be okay, but he knows Dick is trying to be strong for all of them. So he says nothing, just watches, a witness to a grief that runs deeper than any of them.

He finds Jason in the gym, a whirlwind of frustrated energy, punching a heavy bag with a force that’s more rage than practice. His face is a mask of strained muscle and raw emotion, and Tim knows the ghost of a boy so much like him in so many ways is haunting him. He knows Jason thinks he failed him. Tim wants to say something, but what do you say to a man who’s been dead and back and is still grieving for a loss so profound it feels like his own? He stays silent, a quiet presence in the corner, a brother in mourning.

He sees Damian in the library, hunched over a book, his posture as rigid as always, but his eyes are distant. He sees the anger in the tight line of his jaw. He knows Damian feels like he’s in the shadow of a ghost. Tim wants to tell him he isn’t, that they are all important, all loved, but he knows words aren’t enough for Damian. He has to prove it.

He sees Bruce in the study, a single glass of whiskey on his desk, untouched. He knows Bruce is remembering the laughter of a small boy dancing in the rain, the sound of a voice that filled the mansion with light. A light that the bruised and battered family of vigilantes couldn’t replicate. The light of an innocent. He knows Bruce blames himself, that he carries the weight of a failure he thinks he can never atone for. Tim wants to tell him he isn’t a failure, that he’s a hero, but he knows Bruce won’t believe him. Not yet.

He’s spent four days in the Batcave, reading and rereading the file, the articles, the forums. He’s found more pictures, more information, more questions. The puzzle pieces don’t fit, but he’s learned enough to know that something is wrong. The dates don’t line up, the stories are too fantastical, and the grief is too real. The ghost of Perseus Jackson-Wayne isn’t a ghost at all. He’s a living, breathing person who has been living a life so far removed from theirs that he’s become a myth. Tim’s theory, the only one that makes sense, is that Percy must have amnesia. It’s the only explanation for why he never came back to them. He is not dead. There was no body. He can’t be dead. He is a survivor. He survived Gabe, who’s file showed what a different person Jason used to be. He survived the streets before Red Hood was there to regulate. He survived Bruce when he (somehow) was more emotionally constipated then he is now.

Tim pulls up the file on the Batcomputer again. It’s no longer a cold case. It’s a mission. He’s going to find Percy. He’s going to find his brother. And when he does, he’s going to bring him home.

He doesn’t know what he’s walking into. He doesn't know about the demigods or the gods, the wars or the monsters. He only knows that a ghost has been haunting his family for years, and it's about time he became a brother again.

⊱✿⊰ Dick POV ⊱✿⊰
September 5, 2010
Wayne Manor, Gotham
85 Days since Percy’s Death Anniversary
5 years since Percy’s Death
10:34 AM

At some point, Dick had looked back and finally realized what an idiot he was.

At some point, Dick had memorized the memories. It wasn’t hard, there weren’t many after all. Not near enough as many as there should’ve been.
Now, he made an effort. To be a good brother. To be there.

(So he wouldn’t miss another brother's funeral)

He insisted on weekly dinners, family game nights, movie nights, therapy- oh god therapy.

Of course, insisting didn’t always work. He had to threaten Bruce with no food made by Alfred (So basically no food at all) before he would be honest, rather than his stoic “I am fine” and ‘overworking’ in stress. Jason was still a work in progress on the family dinners but he would come at least once a month- mostly due to Alfred but Dick claimed some credit.

At some point, Dick had started to talk to stones. No, not stones, a stone.

It became a ritual. To honor him. Make up for lost time.

(What he didn’t dare think was that it was a way of repenting. For not being there. Because if he was there then maybe Percy he wouldn’t have had a reason to run away and get kidnapped and die .)

He walked purposefully yet dragged his feet. Despite it being an almost weekly occurrence now, despite being trained to not show emotion, water always pricked his eyes.

He brought cookies this time. They were blue. Chocolate chip. He taught Dick how to make them. Memorizing the memory came with memorizing the recipe. It was his moms recipe, Dick remembered the little 9 year olds face as he told him that. Taught him how to create the perfect tint of blue. It was so innocent, bright, cheerful. It seemed to light up the empty mansion.

He sat down next to the insignificant seeming stone. The stone that only held eleven tiny, seemingly insignificant words and 8 digits that somehow only spanned 12 significant years.

Here lies Perseus Achilles Jackson-Wayne,

May he rest in peace,

1993-2005

He opened the plastic container. Actions, robotic movements, were much easier than thoughts, than emotions. His therapist said it wasn’t good for him. She also said crying was good. It was ok.

“Hey Perce…” He trailed off, unsure. He broke off part of a cookie, lying it on the ground beside him. On the ground in front of the stone and above an empty casket.

He cleared his throat, nibbling on the rest of the cookie in his hand. It tasted like memories tinted with nostalgia and joy. “I know I’ve said this a lot… But god you would’ve loved Damian. Somehow… You would’ve found a way to love that demon brat.”

“Tim…You know him, I’ve told you before if you don’t remember. He's older than you so Dami would’ve been your first real little brother, huh? You would've done so much better than me, I can see you being the best big brother in the world. You probably would’ve even acted like a big brother to Tim. You’d probably be up there with Alfred and be able to get that coffee addict to sleep.”

“Jason…he still refuses to even think about you… I think even after all these years he’s still trying to cope. We all are. Bruce…We got him therapy if you can believe it!” Dick let out a little chuckle. His voice was raw. Vulnerable. He leaned against the cold stone, letting it ground him, and hung his head to pretend the shaking of his shoulders was from the chuckle.

At some point it started raining.

At some point the cookie tasted like tears.

At some point he remembered why exactly his second brother was dead.

At some point he realized it had been over five years.

At some point he remembered that death was final.

⊱✿⊰ Jason POV ⊱✿⊰
September 5, 2010
???, Gotham
September 5, 2010
85 Days since Percy’s Death Anniversary
5 years since Percy’s Death

Death was final.

Jason wasn’t supposed to be alive.

Percy was.

Fate was a cruel thing was it not?

What was fate anyways? An accumulation of past lives karma? The designed plan of a greater being? Three beings as the ancients believed? A comedy of the world? Action and reaction? Cause and effect thousands of times over? Was it nature? Unpredictable and uncontrollable?

All Jason knew was that fate was a bitch.

In spite of being at the pinnacle of all olympian and camp gossip for the last five years, not much is known about Percy Jackson’s early life.The only reason his middle name was known at all was a moment of vulnerability on Percy’s part and later Annabeth yelling at him loud enough for the whole camp to hear.

Naturally, many of his quests were common knowledge. His favorite color, exploits of the mythological world, and his girlfriend were also common knowledge. Little is known about his life before camp though. He met Grover, now a Lord of the Wild and his best friend, at a boarding school in New York. From there he met Alecto, got in a fight, and was expelled. Apparently, Grover invited him to his ‘summer house’ that year. The two somehow were in a car that was eventually driven off road and exploded. The person driving inside died. The Minotaur died less than half an hour later.

Even much of that story was never confirmed though.

The rest of his life would fall under the category of ‘exploits of the mythological world’. Those exploits were the barest details- only what was shared by the questers was known.

These were things of ‘common knowledge’ to anyone involved in the Greek world.

Friends had more knowledge than what was common.

Closest friends knew a bit more. Anyone on the Argo learned of Sally Jackson and blue confections and blue, delicious, godly, food. They learned not to ask. They knew not everyone got to choose if they stayed year-round or not. They learned of amazing ways to get expelled. They learned that he was born in Manhattan but moved to Gotham.

They assumed Percy’s mom died in Gotham. They assumed a foster family or the government paid for his tuition to Yancy.

Comrades from the second Titanomachy knew of an older brother not of blood but of love. Of another brother, an absent one who embodied his name. They learned of two drunk unnamed fathers. They learned of a wonderful British grandfather as they fought a horrible Greek one. They never learned names.

Only five people knew of his legal last name.

Grover learned from a whispered, scared confession hiding from Harpies and nightmares and curfews in strawberry fields at thirteen.

Annabeth learned from a scarred boy staring at painful memories and panicking because Mr. D smelled of alcohol and a horrible home.

Rachel met the missing Wayne who paid for her silence with the truth and assurance that she wasn’t insane. That she wasn’t alone.

Clarisse confessed of feeling like she failed a father and got a confession of failing a family.

Nico lost his family of blood. He didn’t believe anybody would ever choose to love him. A guilty teen spoke of a family not bound by blood but love. The teen spoke of a family of kids who just wanted to survive.

⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰
September 6, 2010
Camp Half-Blood, NY
September 6, 2010
A Month and 5 Days since the End of the Second Giantomachy
7:27 PM

Sometimes, life was easier as repeated actions.

Percy didn’t think as he let his sword lead him through the familiar actions. Actions never taught but still learned.

He counted his breaths. He tried not to think of a time when a sword melded to his hand with blood and golden dust.

The wooden sword broke. Percy stood there. The snap of wood against Cabin 9 celestial bronze training bots echoing in the ring.

In, out. He counted to ten breaths.

The ring stayed silent as Apollo ended his ride and Artemis began hers.

He wondered if a manor in Jersey still stayed this silent. Last he heard there were more kids. Those kids would start school soon.

Summer just ended. There were less kids at camp now. There had been less kids here since the war. When was he last a kid? He wasn’t a kid after 12. He wasn’t a kid since Jason talked about a biological mother and came back in a closed casket.

In, out, count to ten.

He stared at his hand. He had gripped the practice xiphos so hard that indents formed in his palm and cut the skin open.

He didn’t move.

His chest heaved as it tried to remember to breathe. The sword fell from a sweaty grip.

A single drop of red blood slid and hit the ground.

The Parthenon-

Blood of Olympus shall-

A demigod fell to his knees and hacked up crimson blood.

A demigod took assurance because his blood was red, red, red. And not gold in the slightest. Because he was still a demigod.

At some point another demigod ran in.

At some point Percy fell into Hypnos’s embrace.

⊱✿⊰ Damian POV ⊱✿⊰
September 6, 2010
Wayne Manor, Gotham
86 Days since Percy’s Death Anniversary
5 years since Percy’s Death
11:57 PM

The adults are fools. They are weak, sentimental, and they grieve for a phantom. This "Perseus." This so-called brother. I watch them from the shadows, a silent
observer of a family I have only recently joined. My father, the great Batman, the most logical man I know, is a fool when his name is mentioned. His shoulders slump, his eyes fill with a grief I do not understand. He grieves for a civilian. A boy who did nothing. Who was not a soldier, not a hero. He was just a boy.
I watch Grayson, the oldest of us, the one who is supposed to be the pillar of strength. He speaks to a rock. A meaningless slab of stone in a graveyard, one that holds only a name and two dates that span a mere twelve years. He brings it baked goods that I am forbidden from eating and whispers secrets to the wind. He cries over a name that holds no weight. This brother, this "Perseus," is a ghost that has taken root in their hearts. A ghost that overshadows me. I am a Robin. I have fought alongside my father. I have bled for this family. I have proved myself worthy. Yet, in their quiet moments, in their stolen glances, they think of him. The civilian. The boy who was nothing more than a car crash.

I do not understand. I am not a replacement. I am a Wayne. I am the son of Batman. I have earned my place here. But in their eyes, I see a comparison. A shadow of a boy I never met. A boy who was apparently better than me because he had a connection to my father and Grayson, something I will never have with my own blood.
I do not understand why he holds such a special place in their hearts. He did not fight. He did not train. He was a normal boy. And yet, his absence is a gaping wound in this family. A wound that they tend to with tears and quiet sorrow. It's an inconvenience, a constant reminder of a failure I don't comprehend. I am not a fool. I see their pain. But I also see their weakness. I see the way this civilian's memory holds them captive. I will not be a captive. I will prove myself worthy of my father's love, not by grieving for a ghost, but by becoming a hero they can be proud of. A hero who is worthy of the Wayne name, not a boy who was nothing more than a victim.

Chapter Text

⊱✿⊰ Annabeth POV ⊱✿⊰
March 1, 2011
Camp Infirmary, Camp Half-Blood
7 Months since the End of the Second Giantomachy
3:46 PM

Annabeth sat by Percy's side, lost in thought. A detailed blueprint for the reconstructed Mount Olympus lay on her lap. Her pencil moved methodically, sketching fountains and courtyards, a familiar comfort in a world still finding its footing. The war had ended almost six months ago, yet they were still picking up the pieces.
Leo had been back for a month now.

He flew back in heralded by a holographic scroll of his own invention. He flew back with an immortal titanesse who had almost killed Annabeth with a few words spoken flippantly.

Percy didn’t hold grudges. Neither did Annabeth. And neither talked about their time in the pit to anyone. Yet neither talked to Calypso. It didn’t go unnoticed.

She glanced at Percy. This was the longest he'd slept in a while, his face finally peaceful. After years of war, five hours of uninterrupted sleep was a luxury they rarely got, and that was a generous estimate. On the Argo II, two hours was the norm. His face, though chiseled and perfect as ever, was still marked by what they had endured. A stark, silvery-white streak in his windblown black hair, a scar from bearing the weight of the sky. In the pit it had grown to be silver-white rather than the gray it originally was. It was in the same spot on her own head, though hers blended more easily with her blonde layers.

She ran her fingers across the streak, a faint, almost imperceptible touch. It was a shared scar, a constant reminder of the pit and Atlas’s curse, but also a symbol of their survival.

At first, it was hard not to flinch in the mirror when she saw it. Dying it was impossible-they both had tried. Panic attacks and flashbacks were common in all the campers. After the war everyone was on the edge of their seats. Now, it's a mark she wears proudly. It’s a reminder of where they went and what they have done. It was a reminder of Zoe and Bianca who, even though she never even knew them, saved her life.

She briefly wondered if the Romans wore their scars as a badge of honor like they did. Clarisse and Percy had an ongoing bet since they were thirteen about who could get the coolest scar. The Ares cabin had a bet about who could collect the most scars. Last she checked, Clarisse was winning both.

Scars were trophies, marks of stories. Marks of monsters fought and killed. They were constellations, drawing together to form the life of a demigod.

Annabeth sighed, her hand cramping. The gods were demanding, and the plans were grueling. She missed Daedalus’s laptop and all her lost designs.

Naturally, she had a backup USB drive and with the Athena and Hephaestus cabins collaborating to make half-blood safe technology she would eventually get her designs back. But who knew how long that would take. With Leo back they declared themselves close to a breakthrough, apparently they had discovered the secret but needed to learn how to mass produce so they could provide for Camp Jupiter and New Rome’s inhabitants too.

Last she heard the two cabins had roped in the Hermes cabin to steal a few phones to test on and to help them summon their dad who was the one who made the internet. She wondered if she prioritized Hermes’s monument he would help her get a laptop.

A memory surfaced, unbidden. Her younger step-brothers, Bobby and Matthew, had phones now. They got them for their last birthday, which she and Percy had missed because...

She was pulled from her thoughts as a familiar groan came from beside her. Percy shifted, his hand fumbling for something in his pocket before he stilled, his eyes fluttering open. The fog of sleep was slow to clear.

"Annie," he mumbled, his voice hoarse.

She hummed, still focused on a sketch of a fountain for Aphrodite's garden.

"Annabeth, my glorious, brilliant, amazing, girlfriend, please pay attention to Mr. 15-year-old Doctor-Solace before he blinds us with his magic glowing hair out of anger and annoyance."

"Sorry, what was that, Percy?" she asked, putting her sketch away and looking up.

"Nothing!" he grinned, that familiar, trouble-spelling look in his eyes. Sleep now thrown to the side, forgotten.

"Perseus Jackson. Annabeth Chase."

Both their heads snapped to the side so fast that Will Solace winced in sympathy. A mortal would’ve snapped their head with how fast they did…Maybe even whiplash.

"Okay... Have either of you ever heard of taking care of yourselves correctly?"

This time, both Annabeth and Percy winced.

"If this is about--"

"I am perfectly responsible, it’s--" they started at the same time, their voices overlapping.

Will sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Demigods."

⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰
March 1, 2011
Camp Half-Blood
7 months since the end of the Second Giantomachy
4:07 PM

After a firm talk from Will Solace, the doctor, dating-my-little-brother-figure, and Rapunzel-rip-off, Percy and Annabeth were released. Will’s lecture about personal safety, eating and sleeping habits, and keeping their inhalers on them at all times was a familiar refrain. It wasn't just a lecture; it was a plea.

"You could at least pretend to care," Will grumbled as he handed Percy his inhaler.

Percy took it, clenching it in his fist. The plastic was cool against his palm, a stark contrast to the burning air of the pit. A stark contrast to the reason they needed one in the first place. "I'm fine, Will. Just a little groggy."

Will shot him a look that said he didn't believe him for a second. "Sure. And I'm not a son of Apollo. Just let me know if you need anything, Percy. Both of you."
Percy nodded, a sincere thanks in his eyes.

"Thanks, Will," Annabeth said, a soft smile on her face. "For everything."

Once outside, Percy's hand slid into his pocket, his fingers wrapping around the inhaler. It wasn’t just a medical device. It was a lifeline and a symbol of what they had been through. Lately everything seemed to symbolize their tiresome lives. He inhaled deeply, the fresh camp air a sweet relief. He knew the feeling of the dusty air of Tartarus on his tongue, the sulfuric smell clinging to his senses.

"Let's go find Nico," Annabeth said softly, already knowing what he was thinking.

They found him by the lake, alone. He was a small, fragile-looking figure against the vast expanse of water. He looked small for the Ambassador of the Underworld. Percy’s heart ached. He didn't just see a son of Hades, a fearsome warrior who stood on par with the Seven and could summon armies; he saw a kid who had lost his family of blood and had to build one of his own.

Percy and Annabeth sat on either side of him. No words were needed. Just the quiet understanding that they were all still there. The three of them, a small island of shared trauma and survival, were still afloat. Percy reached over and put an arm around Nico's shoulders, pulling him into a sideways hug. Nico leaned into him, a rare moment of vulnerability.

This was his family. The one he chose.

⊱✿⊰ ??? POV ⊱✿⊰
March 2, 2011
????, NY
strong> 7 Months since the End of the Second Giantomachy
2:34 AM

From the outset, he was a man unconcerned with the tranquil rhythm of the world. A man who, in his singular pursuit, would gladly scorch the earth and revel in the ashes. A flickering, infernal light danced across his face, a mask of wild, manic joy cast by the flames he commanded. His eyes, hollowed by endless nights of work, burned with a feverish intensity.

He wasn't a man at all.

With a single, deliberate click, he unleashed it.
And with it, a new era was born, not of peace, but of pandemonium for his kind. For the mortals, it was the first tremor of an inevitable earthquake. One that would not take place in the real world they knew.

Chapter Text

March 2, 2011
Mess Hall, Camp Half-Blood
7 Months & a day since the End of the Second Giantomachy
8:04 AM

“Who again thought giving teens, who are half-gods, traumatized and have penchants for trouble and chaos, giving them phones—specifically access to social media—was a good idea?” Percy sat down at his table, looking utterly exhausted. And not in a I-just-held-up-the-sky-and-ran-across-America-in-less-than-a-week kind of way, but in a soul-deep, mentally fried way. A "why-did-I-just-discover-social-media-and-already-find-thirst-traps-of-me" way.

Annabeth laughed, already typing on a laptop.

“At what ungodly hour of the day did they complete this project?”

“2:34 AM” Nysaa called from the Hephaestus table, which was the source of the most intense laughter. Leo Valdez, the chaotic, fiery heart of the group, was at the center, a storm of indignation and amusement. Percy couldn't make out what was being said, but he could hear the distinct sound of Leo's indignant groans and the unrestrained laughter of his siblings.

Percy squinted at Nysaa, mouth pulled into a frown before deciding. “You know what? I don’t even want to know.”

Nyssa grinned, “Trust me, it’s awesome”

Percy doubted that, with a sigh he ignored the ping in his pocket. He hadn’t given anyone his phone number yet but naturally the Hephaestus cabin would prevail.

“Annie! Look at them! They’re screenagers.” He deadpanned.

She looked up at him chuckling, “Okay, old man. Get with the times. As of 2:54 am the mythological world has entered modern times.”

Percy groaned, “Oh my gods you’re infected too. What have they done!” he grabbed her shoulders lightly and gave a little shake.

“Nico! He’ll be on my side! He’s from like, the dinosaur age.”

“Hate to break it to you seaweed brain but he’s also from the Lotus Casino.”

“...What has my life turned to?”

“It was hilarious.”

“Was not.”

“Totally was!” Harley's head bobbed energetically, his eyes gleaming with mischievous delight. The kid, who was a miniature version of Leo, was practically vibrating with amusement.

“Decidedly wasn’t,” Leo muttered, his face buried in his hands. He peeked through his fingers at his siblings and his girlfriend, Calypso, all of whom were watching the same video, tears streaming down their faces from laughing so hard.

“You’ve got to admit, Leo, funniest thing since you’ve been back,” Nyssa said, wiping a tear from her eye. The entire Hephaestus table was a picture of unadulterated joy. For a group of people who usually expressed their emotions through the clang of a hammer or the roar of a forge, this was a rare and beautiful display of pure, unadulterated hilarity.

“Nyssa!” Leo whined, his voice muffled by his hands.

“No, no, it's only not funny for you because you’re embarrassed,” Jake Mason chimed in, grinning from ear to ear. “You look like you're about to unleash the Kraken, but with more fire and less tentacles.”

“Calypso,” Leo pleaded, his voice cracking with exasperation, “You’re supposed to be on my side!” He looked at her with a betrayed expression, his big brown eyes wide with mock-sadness.

Calypso, however, was in the midst of a silent laughing fit, her shoulders shaking. She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself, her cheeks flushed with amusement. “Leo,” she said, her voice still shaky, “Watch the video. For the love of Apollo's obnoxious ego, tell me that isn’t funny.”
Leo groaned, a low, guttural sound of defeat, and snatched the phone from her hand. He watched the video, a fresh wave of mortification washing over his face as the familiar, sleep-deprived grin of his past self appeared on the screen.

Someone at the table let out a low whistle. “What I would’ve paid to hear his monologue out loud—because he’s definitely doing one in his head.”
Leo groaned again, banging his forehead onto the table with indignation. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “I hate all of you, and I’m going to make all of your phones self-destruct.”

Everyone laughed again, somehow louder than before.

Eventually, the video managed to circulate around the whole mess hall, which meant the whole camp as no one was missing out on a meal. The video was a perfectly-edited masterpiece of digital mockery. It showed a boy, Leo, with his signature shaggy brown hair sticking up at odd angles, a manic grin plastered on his face as forge lights danced over his sleep-deprived, wild eyes. His grin grew by the seconds as he clearly thought of something, his eyes lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning. Whispers and giggles from people outside of the frame could be heard before the camera person shushed them, the camera zooming in on Leo’s face as he pressed a button, a crazed, triumphant laugh escaping his lips while he muttered under his breath in ancient Greek. Luckily, someone edited in subtitles, creating the perfect villainous monologue for the campers to devour.

“I’ve unleashed it… a new era… pandemonium for my kind!… The mortals will never know what hit them! Not in the world they know…” The video ended abruptly as the videographer fell over laughing, the camera shaking uncontrollably as they tried to suppress their mirth.

“You totally look like a classic Disney villain,” Calypso said, finally able to speak without laughing.
Leo lifted his head from the table, his face a mask of wounded pride. “...I hate you. I hate you all. I was running on like two hours of sleep for the past three days! Laboring away to make you ungrateful people phones! Phones which you weaponized against me! Forgive me for being excited about mass production and fame!” Leo cried out, dramatically clutching his chest.

Someone in the pavilion made a comment, their voice echoing across the now-silent mess hall, asking if that was his villain origin story.

The camp was a strange blend of quiet anticipation and bubbling energy. Normally, or at least a few days ago, the morning mess hall was a cacophony of clanking plates and boisterous conversations about epic quests and stolen flags. Now, however, a new sound had been added to the mix: the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of thumbs on glass screens, punctuated by sudden gasps and erupting laughter. Every table, from the stoic Ares cabin to the perpetually-gossiping Aphrodite kids, was engrossed. Demigods, each a masterpiece of divine DNA and adolescent angst, hunched over their new devices, their faces illuminated by the eerie glow of the screens. The phones, crafted with Leo’s trademark genius and a dash of godly magic, were disguised as ordinary devices but were impervious to monster attacks and could connect to a new, demigod-only Wi-Fi network that Leo had somehow hacked into a sat-com system. They also, thankfully, didn’t alert monsters of a free buffet.

The original plan for demigod-safe technology was for safe communication. After all, rainbows weren’t the easiest to find. Now, the world had taken a turn for the worse.

Demigods were all teens and preteens. Teens and preteens that were part god and had the looks to back it up. Living in camp, this became normal. Percy wasn’t ever one to care for looks. Sure some part of him realized he’d grown up with incredibly good looking people his entire life, Bruce, Dick, Jason-all heartbreakers according to the press. And Sally Jackson who tempted a god into breaking an oath set upon the price of death or an existence worse than death ever could be.

Demigods were also very chaotic. They said the randomist things online. Apparently there was a subreddit about him. A subreddit. Created in the span of less than a week and debating his mythological ventures because who would believe that? Much less on reddit. From what he heard, a mortal joined the conversation and was…cussed out among other things more violent in their nature.

Demigods were also teens with weapons. They wanted to test the mist. So, naturally, they took pictures and posted them online. Debates were currently circulating about giant toothpicks and letter openers.

Who gave these kids power and were they on crack when they did so?

Percy watched the chaos unfold around him. Over at the Hermes table, Travis and Connor Stoll were attempting to gaslight some poor person on the internet into believing the matrix was real and were already creating a group chat with the quest of having the whole camp on it. Clarisse, surprisingly, had a surprisingly popular "Ares Cabin Unfiltered" account, where she posted videos of herself bench-pressing boulders and giving surprisingly sound combat advice. The Apollo kids, naturally, were already a viral sensation, with Will Solace posting videos of himself singing while playing the ukulele and giving medical advice in a soothing voice that had already garnered a massive following. Percy had to admit, the kid was good, but it was just so… strange.

Part of Clarisse’s following probably had to do with the comments discussing how much was CGI or not. The name of the account created enough interest as it was. Most, reasonably, doubted if that stuff was even possible or if there was a new child-soldier on the Justice League that they’d yet to hear of.
Percy was convinced the demigods were itching to pick a fight with the Justice League. Which would be a horrible idea, not because they'd lose—in fact, quite the opposite—but because they'd win. These "heroes" were symbols for the mortals, even if they were useless. Unless it was Diana Prince, "Wonder Woman," they were fighting. She better have a pretty good excuse for not participating in two wars. If she had helped, how many lives could've been saved? How many crippling injuries could've been prevented?

Naturally, all the kids already knew about the so-called heroes, but seeing them idolized while they caused so much property damage set their blood aflame. For most, at least.

Percy was unsure how to feel. He spent so much time on the street in Gotham. There, the Bat wasn't always the hero. Especially now. With the Robins. So many. Child soldiers, enlisted to carry a weight far too big for them. Percy knew how that felt.

The kids surrounding him... these were the kids he'd fought alongside. The ones who had faced down gods and monsters, stared into the eyes of death, and still found the courage to get up and face another day. Now they were... influencers. Posting selfies with their weapons, making reels about their daily routines, and trading memes about demigod life. It was a bizarre new reality, a digital world built on the foundation of a very real, very dangerous one.

He felt like he was watching a train wreck in slow motion, and he had a terrible feeling he was one of the cars about to go off the rails. He just wanted a peaceful morning, a quiet breakfast of blue waffles, and a moment to breathe. He hoped the mortals wouldn’t dig too deep, but he also knew that secrets were a luxury demigods could no longer afford.

⊱✿⊰ Tim POV ⊱✿⊰
March 6, 2011
Bat Cave, Gotham
1:49 AM

The Batcomputer was a silent partner in his quest for answers. Tim spent most nights in the cave, lost in the web of data. Tim vaguely remembered Bruce’s third son. They had been together for almost a school year before he moved schools. Before Jason died. The file was brief. Perseus Achilles Jackson-Wayne. Missing. Presumed deceased.

Tim clicked through the files, a detective's curiosity piqued. The dates didn't line up. The body was never recovered. He found a dedicated subreddit for a “Percy Jackson,” which he initially dismissed. Last he checked, Perseus Jackson didn't exist past the age of twelve. But the subreddit's content was baffling. It debated mythological feats he knew weren't real, like defeating the god of war or fighting a Minotaur. When he tried joining the conversation, under an alias of course, he was promptly cussed out. He also found articles about teenage influencers, all of whom had recently emerged, near the time the subreddit was created.
Tim had an idea. This might be a dead end for anyone else. But for a detective, it was a challenge. He’d learned from his own brothers that sometimes, the most hidden information is the most important.

He looked at the digital file for Perseus Achilles Jackson-Wayne once more. He wasn't a ghost to the others, not anymore. He was the reason for their quiet grief, the unspoken trauma that haunted the family. The reason Dick couldn’t make microwavable anything but could make blue chocolate-chip cookies blindfolded. Why Bruce tried so hard. The reason Jason claimed he, Tim, wasn’t just a replacement for him but for “Perce.” The reason Jason shouted about Bruce having a criteria and how he matched the age too. The reason Bruce tried to drown the pain with alcohol and why alcohol never entered the property afterwards.
For the first time, Tim felt a personal connection to the story. He wasn't just a detective looking at a cold case; he was a brother trying to understand the full weight of the family he had joined.’

⊱✿⊰ Cass POV ⊱✿⊰
His name was a sound like the ocean. Percy. The word on Dick's lips was a question, a memory, a sorrow. The name on the news was a weapon, a lie, a story for others. But the boy himself—the boy was a ghost. A presence she felt everywhere, a language she understood without ever having to meet him. I watched the others.

I watched the way the house held his absence. The Waynes’ language is broken. We speak in violence, in the tautness of a shoulder, the clench of a fist. But the ghost of Percy Jackson-Wayne spoke to me in the spaces between. In the sudden quiet when a name was mentioned. In the way Dick's smile would flicker and dim at the
mention of the sea. It was a memory I did not have, a grief I did not earn, yet I felt its weight in every room.

Jason’s grief was a loud thing. A shouted word, a fist against a wall. I saw him, raw and cutting, demanding to be seen. He would talk about a boy long gone, and the ache in his voice was a physical thing. He was a piece of a story, a replacement for a ghost. I understood the language of that anger. The way it bled from him, a wound he could not heal. His grief was a scar, a fresh wound that demanded to be seen.

Bruce's grief was a shield. He held it up, heavy and solid. He was a person who spoke in hard, final sentences. But in the quiet moments, in the small, unguarded flinches, I saw the truth. The alcohol that never entered the property, the reason he tried so hard, the quiet sorrow I sometimes felt in the air when he thought no one was looking. He was a man who lost a son. That was a language I knew intimately.

My family is a collection of broken parts, trying to build something whole. Bruce, the core. Dick, the glue. Jason, the shattered glass. Tim, the missing piece. Damian, the finishing touch waiting to be seen and added on. They were all haunted. Haunted by a boy who was not here, a boy I had never met. The stories I heard were fragments. A mistake. A school far away. A car accident. None of it made sense. But the pain made sense. The love made sense.

I watched them. I read their story. And for the first time in a long time, I understood. Not with words. Not with my eyes. With my heart. The ghost of Percy Jackson-Wayne was a hero, yes. But he was also a wound. And maybe, just maybe, the Waynes had not found their ghost. Maybe the ghost was a part of them, and he was the one who taught them how to be heroes in the first place.

⊱✿⊰ Jason POV ⊱✿⊰
March 6, 2011
Gotham
8:56 PM

Death was final. Jason knew that better than anyone. He'd come back from the dead, a violent and screaming thing, but he'd also seen how final it was for others. His mother. His brother.

He walked through the streets of Gotham, the chilly night air doing little to cool the fire in his gut. He had a job to do, a case to crack, but his mind kept replaying a different kind of crime scene. The one that was a permanent fixture in his memory. He passed a skatepark, its ramps and rails wet and slick from the recent rain. He stopped, his gaze lingering on a half-pipe, and the ghost of a memory rose, as vivid and painful as a fresh wound.

A kid. A scrawny, gangly kid with a mop of black hair, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his eyes wide with excitement. "Please, Jay? I'll be awesome, I swear! I'll be able to grind on everything!" He had been eleven, maybe twelve, at the time, and he wanted a skateboard for his next birthday more than anything. Jason, a teenager himself, had promised to teach him everything he knew. He even started a list of all the cool tricks he would show him, each one a silent promise of a future that would never come to be.

He had never gotten that skateboard. He had never gotten to celebrate that birthday. He was a ghost long before the car swerved into a ditch. He was a ghost when Jason left, when he packed his bags and said hurtful things about what a family was. False things. He was a ghost when he walked out that front door and left his little brother to fend for himself. The guilt was a physical thing, a heavy rock in his stomach. It was his fault. He was the one who pushed Percy away. He was the one who had his own foolish, self-absorbed drama and let his little brother believe that love was conditional.

And now he was gone. He was dead. And he never even got to go on a skateboard. The laughter from the memory faded, replaced by the hollow echo of his own regret. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, the cold plastic of a skateboard key chain digging into his palm. He had meant to give it to him. He was a few weeks too late. And eventually, those weeks became years.

⊱✿⊰ Bruce POV ⊱✿⊰
March 6, 2011
Wayne Manor, Gotham
3:14 AM

The rain fell in sheets, a cold, relentless downpour that mirrored the ache in his chest. From his office window, Bruce watched the city lights blur into streaks of color on the wet streets. The city was always alive, even at this hour, but tonight, it seemed to be mourning with him. He held a glass of whiskey, but its amber warmth did nothing to chase away the chill. The bottle, a relic from a past life, sat untouched on his desk. He hadn’t had a drop since the funeral. Since the day he was a failure. He hadn’t had a drop in years.

Percy loved the rain.

The memory hit him with the force of a punch, as sharp and sudden as a gunshot. A small boy, maybe eight years old, dancing in the downpour on the mansion grounds, his laughter a bright, clear sound that filled the empty spaces of the estate. He remembered a younger, more innocent Percy, who saw the world not through the lens of a looming darkness, but through the hopeful eyes of a child. He remembered the innocent grin, the messy black hair plastered to his forehead, the way he would run inside afterward and declare himself "King of the Ocean" before running upstairs and jumping on the bed and leaving wet footprints behind.

He had tried to protect him. Sent him away to keep him from this life, from this darkness. But in his desperate, misguided attempt to keep him safe, he had pushed him away. He had told himself it was for his own good. That he was too young, too innocent, to be stained by his world. He had sent him to live a normal life, a life of school and friends and not a single monster lurking in the shadows. But he had failed him. He had sent him away, a scared little boy, and the world had swallowed him whole.

The news report was a cold, cruel fact: Car swerved into a ditch, struck by lightning, and exploded. The body was never recovered. He had run the forensics a thousand times, each time hoping for a different outcome, but the results were always the same: presumed deceased.

His greatest failure wasn’t losing Jason to a crowbar. It wasn’t a villain escaping. It was a failure of the heart. A failure to see that his son needed him, not a world away, but right here. A failure to protect his innocent child. The rain was a reminder of everything he had lost. The laughter, the innocence, the light that had once filled this cold, empty house. He took a shaky breath, the pain a familiar friend. The world believed his son was dead. And a part of him, the broken part, knew they were right. He had lost his son the moment he had sent him away.

Maybe one sip would be okay.

Chapter Text

⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰
The digital world was a double-edged sword. On one hand, it was a way for the demigods to connect, to share their stories, to feel a little less alone. (Although Chiron had limited their screen time. Apparently Centaurs could install Life 360 as well as parental controls. Did immortal hero-trainers even count as a parental-figure?) On the other hand, it was a constant reminder of the world they'd left behind. A world where they were not heroes, but myths. A world where they were forgotten, until they weren't.

He put his phone down. It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, and the world seemed to be at peace. But he knew better. He knew the peace was a fragile thing, a thin veil that could be torn at any moment. He knew the monsters were out there, waiting. He knew the gods were watching, waiting. And he knew that the mortals were digging deeper, getting closer to the truth.

Annabeth sat next to him, her fingers tracing the patterns on a well-worn leather-bound book. "Percy," she started, her voice soft, "you know its safer now... Maybe it's time you go back. Just for a visit. To see if there's... something. Anything worth staying for."

"Something like what, Annabeth?" Percy's voice was sharp, a bitter edge to it he hadn't intended. "My life isn't there anymore. It's here. With you. With all of us." He gestured to the sprawling camp, the cabins, the Big House. "I can't just... walk back into a life I don't remember and pretend I'm the person they want me to be. Be the person they remember me as."

"You don't have to be," she said, her grey eyes filled with a familiar mixture of wisdom and worry. "But you can't just ignore it. Not with what’s happening in the mortal world. The mortals are getting closer. The mist is getting weaker. It’s because of those heroes. When fighting aliens becomes normal, more people are willing to believe in whatever the mist is hiding."

She twirled some of her princess curls, "Look," she said, her voice dropping. "You need something not related to…” she waved her hand abstractly, “All this. The world of gods. My parents would love to have you over…Mathew and Bobby too. But…in the end we’re connected to this world too. You need a home that you can look out at without flinching Perce. We both do. And…it’s not as dangerous anymore. There aren’t any quests or wars looming on the horizon-Monsters stay out of Gotham for the most part, and you deserve a break. "

Percy's eyes scanned the valley. "Normal," he muttered, the word a strange echo in his mind. What even was normal? 12 year olds with swords? Parents who were the cause of your almost-death one too many times?

He looked at the lava wall, the amphitheatre, the cabins, and woods and strawberry fields. He looked out at his home for the past 5 years. The questions began to bubble up inside him. What if his family didn’t care? What if they were happy and had no need for him back? All he would do was bring up old ghosts long settled. They probably didn’t even want him back. He felt a new kind of dread, not for the gods or the monsters, but for a world that had no memory of him, a world that wasn’t built for him. He who had the blood of immortals and other demigods. Even if they were with Kronos. Even if they tried to kill him and his friends. In another world, maybe they would’ve been his friends. He killed them. Other teenagers who just wanted recognition. A family and a home.

Maybe Annabeth was right, not that she ever wasn’t. He needed normal. He needed peace.

In the depths of the Batcave, the air was thick with a tension that had been building for months. Tim was a coiled spring, his eyes glued to the Batcomputer screen. He was running a thousand scenarios through his head, each one more unlikely than the last. He didn’t notice the silent figure behind him until a warm hand rested on his shoulder.

“Tim,” Bruce’s voice was a low rumble, filled with the exhaustion of a man who had not rested in years. “You’ve been staring at that screen for hours. You need to sleep.”

Tim didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the glowing cursor, his own personal hourglass. He felt a presence, and looked up to see Jason, leaning against the doorway, a crowbar clutched loosely in his hand. He had been training all day, the rage he felt for a long-lost brother fueling his every strike. His knuckles were bruised, his knuckles raw, but his eyes were fixed on Tim, a silent question. A plea.

“I… I just have to wait for this one last thing,” Tim said, his voice barely a whisper. The air in the cave felt thin, suffocating. The three of them were a constellation of grief, each one a star burning with its own quiet sorrow. Bruce, the anchor, the one who carried the most weight. Jason, the meteor, a raw and cutting force of anger. Tim, the observer, the one who could see the entire broken picture. He had hoped that his discovery would be a beacon of light, a promise of a future where they were whole again, but now he just felt a terrible dread. What if he was wrong? What if he was just reopening old wounds for a phantom?

HOURS LATER

Percy was alone in his cabin, the sun long set, casting long shadows across the fields. He pulled out his phone, a strange and terrible curiosity consuming him. He typed in the name that had been haunting him all day: "Perseus Jackson-Wayne." He knew the search would bring up old news stories, articles of a boy who went missing, a boy who was mourned. But he had to know more. He pressed enter, and his breath hitched in his throat. The first article that popped up wasn't an old, grainy photo. It was a recent one. A picture of a young man with a familiar grin, a hint of dark hair and a shadow in his eyes that made Percy's heart ache with a strange sense of recognition. It was a picture of a man with a familiar grin, and it wasn't him. It was an article about his brother.

"Jason Todd, a Living Ghost: The Boy Who Died and Came Back."

The headline was like a punch to the gut. His brother. His brother, who had died, had come back. His brother had been a ghost, just like him. His brother was a survivor.

The realization hit him like a tidal wave. They weren't just mourning a ghost, they were mourning a living, breathing person who had been right in front of them all along. And if his brother could come back, maybe he could too. He had to know what happened. He had to find his family. He had to go home. He had to make sure that this was true. He had to make sure that this-that he wasn’t just a lie fabricated by a journalist.

Maybe Hades had listened to him after all.

Chapter Text

Nightmares weren’t the problem. Nightmares were memories, harsh and destructive. Deaths to be responsible for.

For demigods, ‘dreams’ were worse. They could be the past, present, or future. They could be. It could be a primordial’s warning, their threat. Or it could be that one day in the future camp would fall. Home would fall. They could be a system used by immortals for messages. They could be a horrible insight to the city he left behind. They could also be what-ifs. Another world, another universe. Another choice.

A certain what-if haunted his dreams. What-if they never moved to Gotham? What-if Sally never died and Bruce never adopted him? 

He had long since settled with the death of his mother. If not for the dreams these thoughts would’ve never reached him.

It was the Alaska quest. 

"Good breakfast," Frank had said. "Who's ready for a train ride?"  

The station wasn't far. They were just in time to buy tickets for the last train south. As his friends climbed on board, Percy said, "Be with you in a sec," and ran back into the station.

He got change from the gift shop and stood in front of the pay phone.

He'd never used a pay phone before. They were strange antiques to him, like Alfred’s turntable or his teacher Chiron's Frank Sinatra cassette tapes. He wasn't sure how many coins it would take, or if he could even make the call go through, assuming he remembered the number correctly.  

The dream split from his memory. 

The Percy in this dream didn't stare at the phone trying to grasp a long gone feeling. The Percy in this dream didn’t dial the number of a cop. The Percy in this dream dialed the number of a mother and got voice mail. The Percy in this dream didn’t call only to stand there in silence while a voice from almost five years ago was heard for the first time. The Percy in this dream spoke and reassured that they were alive. The Percy in this dream promised and told someone that they loved them. The Percy in this dream didn’t call only to remember they weren’t alive in the first place. 

The Percy in this dream-in this other world- put down the receiver. He stared at the phone, hoping it would ring back. The train whistle sounded. The conductor shouted, "All aboard."

Percy ran. He made it just as they were pulling up the steps, then climbed to the top of the double-decker car and slid into his seat.

The dream Percy wasn’t wiping tears from his face and wondering how a number and voice could feel so wrong and dangerous and yet safe and like home all at the safe time.

The salty air was a phantom limb, a constant ache where something should have been. Where someone could’ve been. Percy stood at the edge of the Long Island Sound, the waves a relentless metronome of regret. Each crash was a name, a face, a promise he couldn't keep. 

The world was at a still and double-speed at the same time. Clouds covered the sky Bob never got to say hi to. The waves crashed violently and reassuringly against the shore below. Wind hit his bare skin like a comforting blanket that the world was free and the water wasn’t lava. Air struggled to reach his lungs and his hand strayed to a pocket where an inhaler was kept. Neither the sun nor moon showed face. No storms littered the clouds of the Hunts color. 

Bianca. He remembered her nervous laugh, the way she clutched her silver bow. He'd promised. He’d promised he'd keep her safe. But in the crushing darkness of the junkyard, he couldn't. He wasn't fast enough. He wasn't smart enough. He couldn't save her from the automaton, from the weight of her brother's fear. It should have been him. He was the hero. He was the one with the powers. Why was she the one to pay the price for his incompetence? He just wasn't enough. 

People will call her selfish for leaving behind a broken boy. No one will think of freedom. No one will think of the drowning that comes not from water or earth but from responsibility. The responsibility she let go off but still stubbornly carried to her death.

"If anything happens, give that to Nico. Tell him... tell him I'm sorry”

Silena. The memory of her brave, tearful eyes that were fearful only for them and not herself was a knife in his gut. If only he'd been strong enough to kill that drakon sooner. If only he'd been a good enough leader to convince Clarisse to come, to listen, to forgive. If only he had been able to keep Beckendorf alive to give her a reason. He carried her last words like a scar, a reminder that even in her betrayal, she was a better hero than he could ever be.

"Forgive me. Charlie... See Charlie..."

Beckendorf. The explosion was a sound he’d never forget, a deafening roar that stole a friend. A good friend. He felt the phantom pressure of Beckendorf’s hand on his shoulder, the weight of a final, hopeful glance. He was there. He was supposed to be a hero. Why couldn't he stop it?

He shut his eyes, but the faces were still there, a parade of his failures. The voices still whispered with the winds and waves. The words cycled through like the tide. He was a hero, a savior, but what did that even mean when he couldn't save everyone? When he couldn't even save himself from these memories? When he couldn't measure up? The list was long. It was always long. But now, it was growing in a different way, twisting into a guilt that went deeper than just death. It was the guilt of survival, of bearing witness to a pain he couldn't stop, a darkness he'd helped create.

Nico. He saw him in the shadows of the woods, a gaunt, angry boy with eyes that held the ghosts of a thousand years. Percy had promised to protect Bianca, and he had failed. He had watched as Nico's grief curdled into a bitter fury, a journey into the Underworld that no child should ever make. He felt the weight of Nico's suffering, a burden Percy knew he was responsible for. He had sent him on a fool's errand, a quest for a sister who would never return. He had failed to see the warning signs, the pain beneath the boy's anger. And now, all that sorrow, all that trauma, it was on him. It was a wound he couldn't heal, a shadow he couldn't chase away because he had not been enough for his friend.

He saw the Nico he met. The Nico who talked about a game and powers of no consequence. He saw the Nico he was responsible for. The fourteen-year-old that walked through Hell and survived.The young boy who found a small broken family. Nevertheless, it was a family.

The sea breeze carried a familiar ache, a chorus of unspoken names that haunted his waking hours. Each crash was a face, a memory, a promise broken. There were others, too. Too many others.

Luke. The weight of that name was a lead anchor. A ghost in his mind. He saw the boy he could have been friends with, the brother he could have had, twisted by bitterness and a world that had failed him. He’d stood by as Luke was consumed by a darkness Percy was too blind to see, too slow to stop. The final moments were a victory, but they tasted like ash. He'd saved the world, but he'd lost Luke. He hadn’t been enough to save him. 

"Ethan. Me. All the unclaimed. Don't let it... Don't let it happen again"

Zoe. Her fierce, untrusting eyes haunted him. A huntress, strong and unyielding, brought low by a father’s treachery. He remembered the starlight on her face as she faded, a constellation lost to the night. She had sacrificed herself for a quest he was a part of, a burden he carried, another life he’d failed to protect.

“Stars. I can see the stars again m’lady.”

He blinked the salt water out of his raw eyes.

Ethan. A flash of a single, angry eye. A demigod on the wrong side, but a demigod nonetheless. He’d watched as Ethan made a final, desperate choice, a sacrifice for the greater good. He changed the world and lost so much more than just his eye. Why couldn't Percy have been the one to convince him to switch sides sooner, to join them? Why did it take death to show him the right path? 

Grover. He saw the panic in his best friend's eyes, the way Grover had been forced to face down a god's madness, to carry the weight of a dying world on his shoulders. Percy had been a part of that, too. He had been the one to lead them, and he had been the one to fail.

Rachel. She had risked everything. Her future, her life, her sanity. She had given up a normal life to become an oracle, to bear the weight of a prophecy that had brought so much pain. And Percy, the hero, had just watched. He had stood by as she made that terrible choice, as she took on a burden he had no right to ask of her.

Castor and Lee and Michael. He saw their faces in the sea of fallen campers. The ones who fought, who bled, who died for a cause he was the face of. He knew he'd never remember all their names, and that was the cruelest part. They were just a list, a casualty count, a testament to his so-called heroism.

A quiet voice, a ghost of a thought he usually drowned out, whispered in his mind. You were just a kid, too. Just a kid who was handed a sword and told to go fight war.

He pushed it away. It didn't matter. He was the one who had survived. He was the one who had made the promises, who had taken the burden. He was the one who should have been better, stronger, faster. He should have been more.

Jason Grace. He didn't want to think about Jason. Not yet. Not ever. Jason was a constant, living reminder of everything Percy wasn't. Jason was the perfect son of the sky, the true leader, the one who could be trusted. He was the Roman hero, with a clean-cut vision and a clear plan. Percy was the messy, emotional, flawed Greek kid. He could control the sea, but he couldn't control the chaos inside him. He felt like a placeholder, a stand-in for the real hero, the one who was meant to save them all. Jason’s survival was not a comfort, but a quiet pressure, a constant echo in his mind that no matter what he did, he would never be enough.

He wasn’t enough for Bruce. He wasn’t smart or talented enough. Tim was. He remembered his name from the news. He always had kept an eye on the Wayne’s. And Bruce had a blood son now. Damian. Looked like Bruce finally figured out how that worked. 

He wasn’t enough of a family for Jason, his Jason, who left to find a mom. To find a real family. Who only left a pleading note explaining and begging Percy not to tell Bruce where he was. It had gotten him killed. 

Percy wasn’t needed back home. But Percy needed a home. Maybe he could get a second chance. He sass-talked the king of the universe and Titans and Giants and the Earth and goddamn Nyx. He could survive at least a weekend with Bruce. 

Probably.

…Hopefully?

Annabeth found Percy early in the morning. His back was to the camp and his face looked out to sea. She sat next to him soundlessly. She had seen the article too. Or rather, an article.

It was everywhere. Jason Todd. Bruce Wayne’s second son.  Alive. 

Down in the pit they talked about their life before meeting a lot. He had lived with her at camp since they were 12. Now, they lived through each other's lives.

“When are you leaving?”

“Soon.”

“I packed for you. Everything a demigod needs, extra ambrosia and nectar too. It’s in a duffle bag I put on the bunk next to yours.”

“Is it blue?” The smile in his voice and on his face didn’t reach his eyes.

“Naturally.” They sat in a comfortable silence for a while. Just the two of them. Annabeth studied his face. His family would ask questions- where he was and what he was doing this whole time, how he had a phone, the scars. They could probably assume why he came back. She’d get the rest of Cabin 6 to shove aside their current project-discovering the whole Justice League's secret identities- to help her fabricate a story for him. She already had an idea but she’d get them to poke holes in her story that they could then cover up. 

“Friday,” she announced.

“What?” He startled out of his thoughts.

“You’ll leave sometime Friday. Whenever you’re ready but if you haven’t left by 5 PM I am forcing you to leave.” 

“Why…Friday?” He sounded like he was testing the word. Like the word would bite him if he was too comfortable.

“Because, if you don’t do it soon we both know you’ll never do it. I already packed for you-duffle and basic normal supplies. Clothes, toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, phone, socks, shoes, pjs. Anything and everything you can think of. I won’t send you off now as you still need to say goodbye and tell everyone-that’ll take you about a day and a half. I also need you for capture the flag tomorrow night-that’s a perfectly good reason, stop laughing Percy or I’ll put you on guard duty and make you wait-. The drive from here to Gotham is 3 hours, give or take, on a good day with no traffic. I’ll explain your cover story on the way there and tell Chiron. We can take one of the Strawberry delivery trucks to drive us. I’ll drop you off a couple blocks from your house. If anything goes wrong or you want out just call me. We’ll come get you.”

“You know, did I ever tell you that I love you, wise girl?”

“Love you too, seaweed brain.”

After breakfast Percy wandered a bit, unsure of where to really go, who to say goodbye to first. His feet led him to the arena.

Clarisse was already there, sharpening her (fourth) electric spear.

She didn’t look up when he entered but spoke, “What’re you doing here Prissy?”

He shrugged before realizing she couldn’t see the motion and clearing his throat. “You want to spar?” 

A wicked grin spread across her face. She looked up from the weapon, "You think you can take me, Prissy?"

"We both know it's not a fair fight," he said, trying to keep a playful tone in his voice. "I don't have a magic spear, and you don't have magical water powers."

Clarisse laughed, a loud, rusty sound. She stood up and tossed her spear aside, grabbing a practice sword instead. "No powers, then. Let's make this interesting."

Percy nodded, and he, too, picked up a practice sword. They circled each other, a familiar dance of predator and prey. Clarisse moved with a brutal, unyielding grace, her feet pounding against the dirt floor. Percy, in contrast, was like water—fluid and unpredictable, his movements a constant stream of feints and dodges.

Clarisse lunged first, her sword a blur of motion. Percy parried, the clang of steel on steel echoing through the arena. He was faster, but she was stronger, her every strike delivered with a bone-jarring force that threatened to buckle his knees. She drove him back, her fierce battle cries filling the air as she swung her sword in wide, powerful arcs. Percy weaved and ducked, his blade a silver flash as he deflected her blows. He got in a few jabs of his own, but she parried them with ease.

She saw an opening and moved in, her sword sweeping low to trip him. Percy jumped, flipping over her blade and landing on his feet behind her. He pressed his sword to her back, but she was already twisting away, swinging her blade with a backhand strike that forced him to leap back. The fight continued for what felt like an eternity, a frantic exchange of blows and parries. Sweat beaded on their brows and dripped down their faces, and their muscles burned with exhaustion. The morning-sun wasn’t helping either.

Finally, Clarisse roared and charged, her sword held high. Percy met her head-on, their blades locking in a final, desperate struggle for dominance. For a moment, neither gave an inch, their eyes locked in a silent contest of wills. Then, with a grunt of effort, Percy pushed back, using her own momentum against her. Clarisse stumbled, and Percy used the opportunity to sweep her legs out from under her. She hit the ground with a thud, and her sword skittered away into the dirt. Percy stood over her, his chest heaving, his sword pointed at her throat.

"Yield?" he asked.

Clarisse just grinned up at him, her eyes shining with a strange mix of anger and respect. "You wish, Prissy." She lunged, wrapping her legs around his and pulling him down with her. They both went down in a heap, their swords forgotten. The two demigods laid on the floor, panting and trying to catch their breath. It was a no-powers duel which worked in Clarisse’s favor considering her powers couldn’t exactly be turned off. In reality it was a no-powers-percy duel.

After a moment Percy spoke, still trying to catch his breath. “I’m going home. Tomorrow.”

Clarisse stilled for a moment, barely noticeable in her pause. Percy had known her for 5 years. He didn’t survive so many quests just by luck. “Good riddance.” Her voice was hard yet soft.

Percy smirked, “Knew you’d miss me”

Clarisse snorted, “I’ll miss having a decent sparring partner. The newbies don’t have experience and are more pissy than you somehow.”

“Mhm. You just love me don’t you?” he teased.

She grunted in response. They sat and let the morning ripen for a minute. 

“So what? You just show up at the doorstep like some orphaned cat and are like, ‘Hey, I’m alive and have just been hiding for the past 5 years’?”

Percy snorted, “Yeah basically.”

“Can’t be messier than when I met my brothers.”

Percy let out a bark of laughter recalling the chariot quest he and Clarisse had to go through because of Deimos and Phobos.

“Shut up Jackson.”

He found Grover next. The Lord of the Wild was sitting on a mossy log by the strawberry fields, idly playing a tune on his reed pipes. His curly hair was a mess of twigs and leaves, and a few stray strawberries were tangled in the wool of his shirt. He looked up when Percy approached, his big brown eyes widening in a mixture of surprise and joy.

“Percy!” he bleated, leaping to his hooves and enveloping his best friend in a hug that smelled like pine needles and fresh soil. “ I’ve been so busy with my satyrs, I haven’t had a second to breathe. How are you? How was… everything?”

Percy hugged him back tightly, a sense of rightness settling over him. He felt more at home with Grover than with anyone else. “It was… a lot. You know how it is.”

Grover nodded gravely, releasing him but keeping a hand on his shoulder. “Yeah. The world doesn’t like us much, does it?”

Percy chuckled, a small, sad sound. He looked out over the fields, the rows of green plants stretching out toward the horizon. The camp was in full swing. Campers were training, laughing, and living their lives. And he felt like a ghost, a remnant of a time that was long gone.

“I’m going home, G-man,” he said, the words feeling foreign and heavy on his tongue. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Grover’s smile faltered, replaced by a look of sorrow. He slowly let go of Percy’s shoulder, his hand falling to his side. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Percy said, shoving his hands into his pockets. He couldn’t meet Grover’s eyes. He felt a lump forming in his throat, and he swallowed hard. “I can’t stay here anymore. Not like this. It’s… I feel like I’m in a dream, and any minute I’m going to wake up and everything’s going to be different again.”

“Are you sure?” Grover asked, his voice barely a whisper.

 “I am,” Percy agreed, finally looking at his friend. Grover’s face was a mask of grief, and it was almost too much to bear. “Jason he’s…back. He’s alive. That’s what the newspapers are saying. I need to check. See if it’s true.”

Grover nodded, “If you need anything…Well Gotham needs a clean-up anyways. It’s worse than New York!”

“Thanks G-man,” Percy said, his voice rising with a desperate plea. “I just want to be a son. A friend. A person. I’m so tired, Grover. I’m so, so tired.”

He looked at his hands, calloused and scarred from years of wielding a sword. He felt a phantom ache in his shoulder where the weight of the sky once rested. He remembered the cold fire of Tartarus and the suffocating darkness of the pit. He remembered the faces of the friends he’d lost. The weight of it all pressed down on him, a physical burden he’d been carrying for years without realizing it.

Grover stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Percy again, this time holding on for dear life. “I know,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I know you are. And I love you, Percy. More than anything. I’ll miss you so much.”

Percy’s own tears began to fall, hot and fast, soaking into Grover’s woolly shirt. “I’ll miss you too, G-man. You’re the best friend a demigod could ever ask for. Promise me you’ll keep an eye on things, okay? Make sure the new kids don’t get themselves killed. And don’t eat any bad tin cans.”

Grover let out a watery laugh. “I make no promises. But I’ll try.”

They stood there for a long time, two halves of a whole, saying goodbye without needing to use words. The afternoon sun beat down on them, and the gentle hum of the camp around them seemed to fade into a quiet backdrop. When they finally broke apart, it felt like a piece of Percy’s soul was being torn away.

“So… this is it then?” Grover asked, his voice still choked up.

“For now,” Percy said, trying to force a smile. “It’s not forever, G-man. It’s just… for now. I’ll come back. I promise.”

Grover nodded, but his eyes told Percy he didn’t believe him. He raised a hand in a final, solemn salute. “Bye Percy.”

“Bye, Grover.”

Percy turned and walked away, not daring to look back. He could feel Grover’s gaze on his back, a silent farewell that spoke volumes. The farther he walked, the lighter he felt, as if a great weight was being lifted from his shoulders.

A chill ran through him as he rounded the corner to the Hades cabin, but it had nothing to do with the temperature. The air was warm, smelling of pine needles and salt, but the shadows clung to this patch of ground, thick and heavy. The cabin itself was a monument to darkness, a stark black rectangle with a skull and crossbones carved over the door. The windows were small and tinted, and no light seemed to escape from within. It looked like something built to keep the world out.

He knocked, a hesitant tap of his knuckles against the cold wood. He waited, and waited, but nothing happened. He knocked again, a bit louder this time. Still nothing. A familiar pang of anxiety hit him, and he almost turned to leave, to find an easier goodbye. But he couldn’t. He had to say goodbye.

Percy pushed the door open a crack. The hinges groaned in protest, a long, drawn-out wail that seemed to echo in the silence. The cabin was dim, lit only by a few flickering candles. It smelled of earth and old leather and something else…something like ozone and power. He stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Nico was sitting on his bed, hunched over a deck of Mythomagic cards. He was wearing a black t-shirt and jeans, his dark hair falling over his face. He didn’t look up. “The door was closed for a reason, Percy”

Percy took a step closer, and another, until he was standing at the foot of Nico’s bed. He felt an urge to just reach out and hug him, but he knew better. Nico wasn’t a hugger. Not anymore. He’d learned that the hard way, after the war with Gaea. He just stood there, awkwardly, shuffling his feet.

“I… I’m leaving,” Percy said, the words catching in his throat.

Nico’s head shot up. His dark eyes, which had once been so bright and full of life, were now shadowed with a deep, bottomless sorrow. A sorrow that Percy knew he had a hand in. “Where?”

“Home. Gotham.”

A single card slipped from Nico’s fingers, landing face down on the floor between them. He stared at it, as if it held all the answers to the universe. “I see.”

“I’m going back to my family,” Percy said, trying to explain, trying to make him understand. “My… my brother… he’s been gone for five years. I need to be there for him. For my family.”

Nico finally looked at him, his gaze intense and unwavering. “And what about us?”

The question was so quiet, so full of raw vulnerability, that it hit Percy like a physical blow. “What about us?” he repeated, his voice barely a whisper.

“You’re just… leaving?” Nico asked, his voice cracking. “After everything?”

“It’s not like that, Nico. This place… it’s not home anymore. Not like it was. It’s a constant reminder of everything I’ve lost. I can’t live like this. I can’t be a hero anymore. I just… I need to be a person.”

The words hung in the air between them, a fragile, unspoken truth. Percy felt his heart ache, a sharp, twisting pain. He remembered a younger Nico, a boy who had looked at him with such hero-worship in his eyes. He remembered the anger and the pain and the betrayal, the chasm that had opened up between them. He remembered the quiet understanding that had slowly, painstakingly, bridged that gap.

“I’ll always be here, Nico,” Percy said, taking a step closer, his hand hovering in the air between them, unsure whether to reach out or not. “I’m just… taking a break. I’ll come back. I promise.”

Nico finally stood up, his gaze never leaving Percy’s. He was taller now, his face more angular, more haunted. He was no longer a boy, but a young man who had seen too much, been through too much. He was a survivor.

“It’s okay, Percy,” Nico said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “I get it. You’re tired. We all are.” He took a step closer, and then another, until he was standing right in front of Percy. He reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, a simple, firm gesture of support. “You’ve been carrying the world on your shoulders since you were twelve. You deserve a break. A real one.”

“But what if I can’t… what if I’m not… me, without all this?” Percy asked, his voice barely a whisper. “What if I’m not enough for my family? What if I'm not the brother they remember, the one they lost?”

Nico squeezed his shoulder, his dark eyes meeting Percy’s. “You’re my brother, Percy. My brother. That’s what you are. That’s more important than any title or prophecy. And that’s not going to change just because you go home.” He took his hand off Percy’s shoulder and held it out, palm up. “Give me your hand.”

Percy, confused, did as he was told. Nico took a silver drachma out of his pocket and pressed it into Percy’s palm. It was a simple coin, but it felt heavy. “This is for you,” Nico said. “It’s a direct line to me. Whenever you need me. And I mean whenever. If you’re at home and you just can’t… can’t take it anymore… if you need to escape for a little while, just toss this into the nearest shadow. I’ll come. I’ll shadow-travel and I’ll come get you.”

A single tear traced a path down Percy’s cheek. “You know… that works both ways, right?” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “If you ever need a break, just call. My family is weird, but they’re good weird. Alfred makes the best cookies, and my brothers can be a pain, but they're good people. My dad has an adoption problem too. You can always come stay with us. No questions asked. We’ve got a guest room with your name on it.”

Nico looked from the coin to Percy's face. He saw no trace of a lie, no hint of a joke. Only a quiet, resolute determination. He felt a lump form in his throat, and for the first time since he’d entered the cabin, he felt a bone-deep sense of relief.

He didn’t say anything. He just reached out, and this time, he hugged his little brother. He hugged him tight, a silent promise that he would never let go, even when they were miles apart. Nico, surprisingly, hugged him back just as fiercely.

“Go on, then,” Nico said, his voice muffled against Percy’s shirt. “Go be a normal kid. Go eat your blue cookies. Go argue with your dad. Fight with your siblings over the last piece of dessert. Just… go be you.”

Percy pulled away, wiping the tears from his eyes. He looked at Nico one last time. He saw no sadness in his eyes, only understanding. Reassurance.

“Stay safe, Ghost King,” Percy said.

Nico gave him a small, sad smile, a ghost of a grin that barely touched his lips. “You too, Percy.” He bent down and picked up the card that had fallen from his hand. He flipped it over. It was the Death card.

“It’s not what you think,” Nico said, seeing the look on Percy’s face. “It’s about change. Transition. A new beginning.”

He held it out to Percy, who took it, his fingers brushing against Nico’s. The card felt strangely warm in his hand. He looked at the stark image of the skeletal figure on the card, riding a white horse, a black banner rippling in the wind behind him. It wasn’t a symbol of an ending. It was a symbol of a journey. A road. A new beginning.

Percy nodded, a lump forming in his throat. He put the card in his pocket, right next to the drachma. It felt like a promise. A silent, unspoken promise that he would, one day, come back.

He didn’t say goodbye. He just turned and walked out of the cabin, leaving the shadows and the silence and the boy who lived in them behind. He walked out into the bright sunshine, and for the first time in a long time, he felt the warmth of the sun on his face, and he thought, maybe, just maybe, he could be happy.

He found Rachel Elizabeth Dare by the creek, a sketchbook balanced on her knees and a charcoal pencil smudging her chin. She was sketching the harpies as they cleaned up the last of the lunch plates, her brow furrowed in concentration. The wind rustled through the tall grass around her, carrying the scent of pine and wild strawberries. Rachel was a vibrant slash of color against the muted greens and browns of the woods, her red hair a fiery beacon, her clothes splattered with paint and ink. She was a constant in a world of variables, a reminder that not everything was a monster trying to kill you.

He stood there for a moment, just watching her, a strange mix of emotions swirling in his gut. A part of him wanted to just stand there forever, to stay in this world where he was a hero, a legend. But the larger part, the part that had been growing and aching for years, wanted to go home. Wanted to be a kid again, in a world where he wasn't a walking, talking weapon.

Rachel looked up, her bright green eyes meeting his. She didn’t smile, not at first. Just a quiet, knowing look that told him she already knew. She closed her sketchbook and set it carefully beside her.

“Hey,” she said, her voice soft.

“Hey, yourself,” Percy said, shoving his hands into his pockets. He sat down beside her on the grassy bank, the creek babbling a peaceful tune beside them. It was a stark contrast to the roar of the ocean he was used to.

“You’re leaving,” she stated, not as a question, but as a fact.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “Tomorrow. I’m going home.”

Rachel nodded slowly, picking up a smooth, grey stone from the ground and turning it over and over in her hand. “I knew you would. Eventually. Your family misses you.”

Percy let out a short, hollow laugh. “Misses a kid who’s been gone for five years? Who just up and disappeared on them? I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’m going back to. I’m not the same person they lost.” He picked up a stone himself, skipping it across the surface of the creek. One, two, three, four…it sank. Just like he was afraid he would.

“Of course you’re not,” Rachel said, her voice gentle, but firm. “You can’t go through what you’ve been through and come out the same. You wouldn't be human if you did. But that doesn’t mean they don't want you back. It doesn't mean they don't love you.”

He looked at her, at the raw, honest vulnerability in her eyes. Rachel had always seen the truth, even the parts he tried to hide from himself. She had seen the lost boy who had found a home in a mansion, only to lose it again. She had seen the demigod who had saved the world, but couldn't save his family.

“I’m terrified, Rachel,” he confessed, the words a desperate whisper. “What if they’ve moved on? What if I’m just a ghost from the past? What if I'm not the brother they remember, the one they lost?”

“Then you show them the man you’ve become,” she said, her voice rising in a fierce, passionate plea. “You show them that the boy they lost is still in there, but he’s stronger now. He’s braver. He’s a hero, Percy. And not just to the gods. You’re a hero to me. You’re a hero to all of us here.” She gestured with her free hand, a sweeping motion that encompassed the entire camp. “You gave us all a future, a chance to have a life. You deserve that chance, too.”

Percy looked out over the camp. He saw Annabeth walking with her half-siblings, probably discussing architecture and laughing. He saw Clarisse and Chris sparring in the arena, a brutal but playful dance of love and respect. He saw Grover tending to a new crop of satyrs, his own little army of guardians. They were all here, living the lives he’d fought so hard to give them. And he loved them for it. He loved them more than he could ever say.

But he felt an emptiness, a hollowness in his chest. A part of him was missing, a part that had been in a different life, a different world. A world with a brooding billionaire, a wisecracking eldest, a sarcastic brother. A world with a butler who made the best hot chocolate and gave the best advice. A world with a last name that wasn’t just Jackson.

“I’m going to miss this place,” he said, the words heavy with sadness.

“I know,” Rachel said, and this time, there were tears in her eyes. She put her hand on his, her fingers intertwining with his own. She was the Oracle, the mouthpiece of a prophecy, but right now, she was just a friend.

“I won’t see the future for you, Percy,” she said, her voice a low, fierce promise. “I won’t look. The future is yours to make. And I’ll be waiting here, ready to hear all about it. And if you ever need a break, if you ever need to escape for a little while…just call. I'll be here.”

He squeezed her hand, a silent thank you. He felt a lump in his throat, and he swallowed hard. “Stay safe, Rachel. Keep an eye on everyone for me. And don't forget to tell Annabeth to take a break once in a while.”

Rachel gave a watery laugh. “I’ll try. But no promises.” She paused, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Well, except for tomorrow, I guess.”

Percy frowned. “What do you mean?”

“My dad is dragging me to some gala he’s hosting in the city,” she said with a long-suffering sigh. “It’s a black-tie event, which means a lot of stuffy people and probably not a single place for me to doodle on a napkin without getting a dirty look. He didn't tell me the specifics, just that it was a ‘networking opportunity’ I couldn’t miss. Can you believe it?”

Percy chuckled, a genuine smile finally reaching his lips. “A gala? You’re going to a gala?” He couldn’t picture it—Rachel in a fancy dress, surrounded by billionaires and politicians, a fiery splash of rebellion in a sea of monochrome. "I'm sorry, Rachel, but that's hilarious."

“Oh, ha ha,” she said, but her own smile was back, bright and genuine. “I’ll probably find a corner and sketch everyone, pretending they’re monsters in disguise.”

“I have no doubt,” Percy said, squeezing her hand one last time. “You'll be the coolest person there.”

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, the peaceful sounds of the camp a gentle backdrop to their quiet goodbye. The sun was getting low in the sky, casting long, purple shadows across the creek. The air was turning cool, and he knew his time was running out.

He stood up, and Rachel did the same. She pulled him into a fierce hug, holding on tight. It wasn't a hug of pity or sorrow, but of hope and fierce, unyielding friendship.

“Goodbye, Percy Jackson-Wayne,” she whispered into his shoulder.

“Goodbye, Rachel Elizabeth Dare.”

He pulled away, and for a moment, they just looked at each other, two people from different worlds who had found a home in each other. He turned and walked away, not looking back. He could feel her gaze on his back, a silent farewell that spoke volumes. The farther he walked, the lighter he felt, as if a great weight was being lifted from his shoulders. But with that lightness came an emptiness, a gaping hole where a part of his life had been. 

He found Piper sitting on the steps of the Aphrodite cabin, braiding a strand of her choppy brown hair. Her eyes were closed, and she was humming a soft, tuneless melody, the picture of serene concentration. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and her clothes were faded and worn, a stark contrast to the usual glamour of her siblings. She was quiet, a steady presence that grounded the chaotic energy of her cabin.

Percy stood for a moment, just watching her, a sense of gratitude washing over him. Piper was the reason he could stand here, on this side of the war, on this side of the world. She was the one who had seen through the facade he’d put up, who had cut through the layers of pain and trauma with a single, truthful word. She was the one who had seen his heart, even when it was broken.

He took a step forward, and she opened her eyes, a small, genuine smile gracing her lips. “Hey, Percy. I was wondering when you’d get here. I can feel the weight of your thoughts from a mile away.”

Percy chuckled, a small, sad sound. He sat down beside her, the wood of the steps cool beneath him. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to me,” she said, her smile turning into a gentle, knowing smirk. She bumped her shoulder against his. “What’s on your mind? You’re vibrating with restless energy. Did you just fight Clarisse again?”

“Something like that,” he said, the words feeling foreign and heavy on his tongue. “I’m leaving. I’m going home.”

Piper’s smile faltered, replaced by a look of confusion. Her brow furrowed, and she tilted her head to the side, her eyes searching his face for a lie, for a joke. “Home? Percy, what are you talking about? This is your home. You’ve been here since you were twelve. Since your mom…” her voice trailed off, a note of sorrow creeping in.

He shook his head, a single, decisive motion. He had to be honest with her. He owed her that much. “No. My mom… she died when I was eight. I was on the streets for a while, and then… I was adopted. I have a family. A dad. Brothers.”

The information seemed to hit her like a physical blow. Her eyes went wide with shock, her mouth falling open slightly. “Adopted? Brothers? Percy, why… why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“I didn’t know how,” he confessed, looking down at his hands, calloused and scarred from years of wielding a sword. “It’s… complicated. They don’t know about this world. Not really. They just think I went to a boarding school and then… disappeared. Died. It’s been five years, Piper. Five years. I just… I couldn’t face them. I couldn’t explain why I left. I couldn’t explain why I never came back. So I just… stayed here. I could have a gravestone right now, Pipes.”

He felt a hot sting in his eyes, and he blinked back the tears. The truth was a physical burden, a weight he’d been carrying for years, and now that it was out, he felt both lighter and more exposed than he ever had before.

Piper was silent for a long moment, her brain visibly processing the information. The girl who could charm anything with a single word was, for once, speechless. She finally found her voice, a shaky whisper. “Your mom died… when you were eight. But Grover… you met Grover when you were twelve.”

“Grover was… yeah met him at twelve. A demigod protector. My real life was in… was in Gotham. That’s where my family is. That’s where I’m going.” He felt a pang of guilt as he said the city’s name. The place where he had found a home, only to abandon it when the going got tough. He knew he was a coward for running. But he couldn't face the looks of pity, the broken promises. The grief that haunted the halls of his home. It was easier to disappear.

“Oh, Percy,” Piper said, her voice full of a heartbreaking mixture of sympathy and sorrow. She reached out and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight, comforting hug. She didn’t say anything else, but she didn’t have to. The hug said it all. It said she understood. It said she forgave him. It said she was going to miss him.

He buried his face in her shoulder, a single, hot tear finally escaping and soaking into her shirt. He held on tight, a silent plea that this moment, this feeling, would last forever. But he knew it couldn’t. The sun was setting, and the world was waiting for him.

She pulled away, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “So… this is it?”

“For now,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s not forever, Pipes. It’s just… for now. I need to be a son. A brother. A person. Not a hero. I’m so tired of being a hero.”

Piper nodded slowly, her lips pressed into a thin line. She knew what he meant. She knew the weight of being a hero, of having the weight of the world on your shoulders. It was a burden they all carried, a silent understanding that passed between them.

“You deserve it, Perce,” she said, her voice firm, resolute. “You deserve to be happy. To have a family. To just… be.” She took a deep breath, and then a small smile, a genuine, heartbreaking smile, spread across her face. “But you better come visit. And you better tell me all about Gotham. All the secrets. All the people. And you better bring me some of those blue cookies you’ve been talking about for as long as I’ve known you.”

Percy let out a watery laugh. “Deal. And you better not let your siblings get into too much trouble. And don’t forget to call me when you need me to talk some sense into Jason.”

Piper laughed, a bright, beautiful sound that he knew he would miss. “Deal. We’ll keep the chaos to a minimum. And you… you take care of yourself, Percy.”

“You too, Pipes.”

She bumped his shoulder playfully, and the mischievous grin he knew so well returned to her face. “Guess who else is leaving soon?”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Me!” she said, her smile widening. "My dad is in New York and wants me to meet up with him and go to a party with him tomorrow." She leaned in conspiratorially. "He says it's a 'surprise.' So I'm guessing it's some fancy, celebrity-filled thing that I'll probably be completely bored at, but he's really excited about it, so I'll go.”

Percy laughed, a genuine, joyful sound that reached his eyes. "A party with your dad? Sounds like a blast.”

Piper playfully shoved his shoulder again. “It is when your dad is Tristan McLean! And besides, it’ll be nice to see him. It’s been a while.”

He stood up, and she did the same. They just stood there for a moment, two halves of a whole, two friends who had been through hell and back, saying goodbye without needing to use words. He turned and walked away, not daring to look back. He could feel her gaze on his back, a silent farewell that spoke volumes. The farther he walked, the lighter he felt, as if a great weight was being lifted from his shoulders. But with that lightness came an emptiness, a gaping hole where a part of his life had been.

Leo had seen a lot of weird things in his life. He’d built a mechanical dragon, survived a fall from the sky, and fought a giant robot on a beach. He’d died and come back to life, and he was currently in a relationship with a goddess who was a former sorceress with a magical garden. But watching Percy Jackson, the great hero, the Savior of Olympus, say goodbye to Calypso in a way that was so… awkward, was a new kind of strange.

He was a little off to the side, tinkering with a tiny fire-breathing automaton he’d been working on. It was a good way to pretend he wasn’t listening, but his ears were perked up. He had a natural curiosity for all things, and that included his friends and their complicated pasts. He’d heard bits and pieces of the story from Calypso. A hero had promised to come back for her and never did. It was a painful memory for her, one that she hadn’t spoken much about until recently. And now, that hero was standing right in front of her.

Percy was shuffling his feet, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans. He was wearing a camp shirt, a faded orange that was almost the color of a sunset, and his black hair was a mess, as usual. He looked nervous, which was a sight Leo never thought he’d see. Percy Jackson, the guy who had faced down gods and monsters without a second thought, was nervous.

Calypso was standing with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. She was beautiful, as always, her golden hair braided with wildflowers from her garden. She looked ethereal, like she belonged in a painting, not in a modern-day camp with demigods and satyrs.

“I… uh… I wanted to say goodbye,” Percy finally said, his voice quiet. He didn’t look at her, but at the ground between them, as if searching for the right words in the dirt. “I’m leaving. I’m going home.”

Calypso’s arms tightened across her chest. “I see.”

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with unspoken words and old regrets. Leo wanted to say something, anything, to break the tension, but he knew this wasn’t his fight. He’d given Calypso a new life, a new beginning, but he couldn’t erase the past. He couldn’t erase the pain that Percy had inadvertently caused her.

“I’m sorry,” Percy said, finally looking up. His sea-green eyes, which usually held so much light and humor, were full of a deep sadness. “I know it’s… not enough. But I am. I’m so sorry.”

Calypso finally uncrossed her arms. She took a step closer, and Leo held his breath, wondering if she was going to hit him or hug him. She did neither. She just looked at him, her gaze a mixture of anger and a strange, weary understanding.

“You’re a hero, Percy,” she said, her voice surprisingly soft. “A hero who saved the world. Twice. I’ve heard the stories. I know what you’ve been through. I know that your world is filled with so much more than just my island. I know you didn’t forget me because you wanted to. You forgot me because you had to. Because the world was falling apart, and you were the only one who could put it back together.”

The words seemed to take the air out of Percy’s lungs. He stood there, speechless, his shoulders slumping a little in relief. It was the kind of absolution he’d been searching for, even if he didn’t know it.

“And now you’re going home,” Calypso said, her voice a little stronger now. “To your family. To a life that’s yours, not one that was thrust upon you by the gods.”

Percy nodded, the smallest of smiles gracing his lips. “Yeah. My family… they don’t know. Not about any of this. They think I’ve been gone for five years, dead probably, or something. I just… I need to go back. I need to be a son. A brother. A person. A normal person.”

Leo finally spoke, unable to hold it in any longer. “Wait, what? A family? You have a family outside of camp?” He couldn’t help it. The surprise in his voice was genuine. From what he knew, Percy’s mom had died when he was twelve. He was an only child. He had assumed that Percy had come to Camp Half-Blood and never left because he had nowhere else to go.

Percy turned to him, his smile faltering a bit. He looked at him, and Leo could see the conflict in his eyes. The desire to keep his secret, and the need to finally let it go.

“Yeah,” Percy said, his voice a little strained. “My mom died when I was eight. I was adopted by a family. My dad is…well my mortal dad… he’s a…a decent man. I have a lot of brothers.” He looked from Leo to Calypso, his eyes pleading for them to understand. “I just… I need to be there for them. They deserve to know I’m alive. They deserve to have me back.”

“I’m so tired of being a hero,” Percy said, his voice cracking. “I just want to be a person. I want to…just… live. I want to have a life that’s not about fighting and prophecies and saving the world.”

Calypso stepped forward and put a hand on Percy’s arm. Her touch was gentle, but her eyes were firm. “Then go, Percy. Go and live. Go and be happy. You’ve earned it.”

Percy nodded, a single tear tracing a path down his cheek. He looked at Leo, and Leo could see the unspoken question in his eyes. The question of whether he, too, understood.

“Go get ‘em, Perce,” Leo said, giving him a clumsy, heartfelt thumbs-up. “Go be a brother. But you better come back and visit. And you better bring me some of those cookies you’re always talking about.”

A genuine, brilliant smile finally broke across Percy’s face. The kind of smile that made his eyes crinkle and the sun seem to shine a little brighter. The kind of smile Leo had only seen a handful of times, usually when he was with Annabeth. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated relief.

“Deal,” Percy said, his voice thick with emotion. He turned to Calypso, and this time, he hugged her. She stiffened for a moment, but then she hugged him back, just as fiercely.

“Goodbye, Percy Jackson,” she whispered.

“Goodbye, Calypso.”

He pulled away and clapped Leo on the shoulder, a firm, brotherly gesture. “See you around, Repair Boy.”

“You know it, rip-off Aquaman,” Leo said, his own voice a little choked up.

Percy turned and walked away, a new lightness to his step. He was heading for the front of the camp, toward the world that he had left behind, the world that was waiting for him.

Leo watched him go, a strange sense of loss and hope swirling in his chest. He turned to Calypso, who was still standing there, her eyes on the spot where Percy had been standing.

“He’s a good guy, you know,” Leo said, his voice soft.

Calypso nodded, a sad, knowing smile on her face. “I know. He always was.”

And for the first time, Leo understood. He understood the pain, the anger, the forgiveness. It wasn’t about a broken promise. It was about a broken boy who had finally found a way to heal. And it was about a girl who had finally found a way to let go. And for the first time in a long time, the air around them felt a little less heavy.

In the distance, a conch horn blew.

It was Thursday. Tonight he would capture a flag. Tomorrow he’d leave camp for the first time in five years for a reason that wasn’t a mission.

He knew it was the right decision, but that didn’t make it any easier.

He was finally going home, so why did he feel like he was leaving a part of himself behind?

⊱✿⊰ Dick POV ⊱✿⊰ 

March 12, 2011 

Gotham 

The gala was a masterpiece of social theater. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and privilege, the clinking of glasses a constant, maddening symphony. I worked the room, my smile a practiced reflex, my laugh a well-timed performance. My entire body was a lie. All I wanted to do was find a quiet corner and scream.

Jason was back. A miracle. He was standing beside Bruce, a stoic mask of his own in place, a hand resting on the small of Bruce's back in a show of familial unity. The press release had been out for weeks, but tonight was the official coming-out party. The return of the prodigal son.

But my mind kept playing tricks on me.

I saw him everywhere. A flash of messy black hair in the crowd, a glimpse of a crooked smile behind a pillar, the echo of a laugh over the din of conversation. He was here, and he wasn't.

I saw him standing on the edge of the dance floor, a half-eaten blue cookie in his hand, his eyes scanning the crowd with a look of bored amusement. I took a step toward him, my heart hammering against my ribs, and then he was gone. Just a trick of the light. A ghost. A hallucination.

This was my curse. I had lost one brother to death and a second one to… something else. For years, I had seen Jason in the shadows, a flash of red and black, a whisper on the wind. Now, Jason was real, but the ghost I saw was a new one. My ghost. My little brother, Percy.

He wasn't a hero. He didn't fight crime. He was just a kid who loved to swim, who could build an impossible sandcastle, who had an infectious laugh. He was a bright, joyful light in a family of shadows. And he was gone. A car crash. A pointless, mundane tragedy.

A reporter pushed through the crowd, his voice an oily intrusion. "Mr. Grayson, now that Jason is back, is it finally closure for the family?"

I plastered my smile back on my face. "It's a gift to have him home."

"What about Perseus? His memorial is still at the mansion."

My smile faltered. My mind flashed back to the small headstone. The two dates that spanned a mere twelve years. He was just a kid. I saw him standing beside me, a small, sad ghost, and he reached out, his hand passing through mine.

"Percy," I whispered, the name a painful, rusted thing on my throat.

The reporter looked confused. "I'm sorry, who?"

I shook my head. "No one. Just… remembering. It's a hard night for all of us."

I turned away from the reporter, my heart aching. I saw Bruce's jaw tighten, his eyes a cold, hard stone. Jason, a few feet away, took a step closer to Bruce, a silent bond of shared grief between them. They had both lost Percy. Bruce as a father, Jason as an older brother. They had grieved for him, privately and publicly. Their shared grief was a bond that even time and death couldn’t break.

The gala continued, a loud, empty celebration. But for the Wayne family, it was a somber, silent tribute to the ghost of two sons. One who had returned, and one who was still gone.

⊱✿⊰ Bruce POV ⊱✿⊰ 

March 12, 2011 

Gotham 

The night was a carefully constructed facade. I was "Brucie Wayne" tonight, a public relations triumph in a perfectly tailored tuxedo. My laugh was loud, my smile easy, and my handshake firm. I held a champagne flute, but the effervescent liquid felt like ash on my tongue. The reality of the night, the painful, raw truth of it all, was a secret I kept hidden behind the mask of Gotham's most eligible bachelor. One son, back from the dead. The other, still a ghost.

I watched Jason, my returned son, working the room with a practiced ease that felt alien on him. He was a different man, no longer the boy who had left us. The light had been replaced by a hardened edge, a shadow of the underworld he’d escaped. Yet, there were moments, brief and fleeting, when I saw him in a certain stance, a particular tilt of his head, and I saw Percy.

It was an unnerving similarity. A cruel mirror.

Percy had been a force of nature, an infectious light in our grim world. He had a joy that seemed impossible for a child from his background, a smile that could disarm anyone. He loved the ocean, blue cookies, and making impossible sandcastles. But beneath that light, there was always a simmering fury, a storm that could rise without warning. I remember mumbling once that his mood was as unpredictable as the sea. He carried a righteous anger at the world, a deep-seated frustration that seemed to resonate through him.

Jason, too, had come to us with a similar spirit, but his anger had been a slow-burning fire. After the Pit, it had become a consuming inferno. The similarities were uncanny. Where Percy’s fury had been a part of him from the start, an ever-present undercurrent, Jason’s had been forged in the crucible of his death and rebirth. He had returned a reflection of what he had endured, a harsh testament to a life lost and a second chance taken.

I found myself in a corner with William Dare. We were discussing a new real estate development in Gotham, a large tract of land he was eager to acquire. I was polite, distant. I knew his reputation. A man who saw land not for what it was, but for what it could be: a mall, a parking lot, a monument to consumerism. He was the kind of man who would tear down a forest without a second thought, and I couldn't help but feel a pang of distaste.

“Bruce,” William said, his voice a low rumble, “I heard about your son. A true tragedy. The kind that makes you question everything.” He was talking about Percy.

I nodded, the word a fresh wound.

“My daughter, Rachel, she… well, she was a bit of an outcast at school,” he continued, a thin smile on his face. “She never cared for the things I did, always drawing and painting. She had this knack for seeing things, you know? Things that weren't there. I always thought it was a bit of a burden for her, that imagination.”

I looked over at Rachel, who was talking with Dick. Her eyes were sharp, observant. She was a world away from her father, a different kind of person entirely. I thought of Percy again, of the way he had seen the world differently, a way that had both delighted and worried me. Both of them, Rachel and Percy, were outsiders in their own families, seeing a world the rest of us couldn't.

The conversation with Dare was a tedious dance, a game of veiled threats and calculated offers. He was a shark in a fine suit, a man driven by ambition and profit. It was a world I knew well, a world that I had mastered. But tonight, it felt small, insignificant. All that mattered was my family, the one I had lost, the one I had found again, and the ones who were still searching.

⊱✿⊰ Jason POV ⊱✿⊰ 

March 12, 2011 

Gotham 

The ballroom felt like a cage, filled with smiling, predatory socialites and the relentless flash of cameras. I felt like a ghost, not just my own ghost, the one I had been for years, but the phantom presence of another. Percy.

A reporter pushed through the crowd, a smarmy look on his face. "Mr. Wayne, now that you have Jason back, does it ease the sting of losing Perseus?"

The air went out of the room. The false smiles on Bruce's and Dick's faces evaporated. Tim's hand, which had been resting on his own, clenched into a fist. The question was a cruel reminder of the other half of this story, the half that wasn't a miracle.

I felt a cold rage. This was supposed to be my night. My resurrection. But the ghost of the boy they had lost still overshadowed everything. I had been the first wound. But Percy… Percy had been the second. The one that had broken them.

I saw Bruce's jaw tighten, his eyes a cold, hard stone. I took a small step closer to him, a silent, shared understanding passing between us. We had both lost Percy. Bruce, as a father. Me, as an older brother. We had grieved for him, privately and publicly. Our shared grief was a bond that even time and death couldn’t break.

"The grief for one son does not negate the joy of having another home," Bruce said, his voice low and dangerous.

The reporter, oblivious, pushed on. "But Perseus was so young, wasn't he? A tragedy. A civilian."

I took a step forward, my voice low and full of venom. "He was my brother. He was a Wayne. He wasn't a civilian. And he wasn't a tragedy. He was a miracle."

I turned away, the flashing lights feeling like a punishment. I saw Dick's eyes on me, full of a gratitude he didn't feel he deserved. Dick had grieved for two brothers, a burden too heavy for anyone to bear. Now he had one back, but the other one's absence felt just as real.

My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a new group of people. Bruce turned, a practiced, genial smile on his face.

"William, so glad you could make it," he said, shaking the man's hand.

A man with a serious, patrician face and a well-cut suit smiled thinly. He was William Dare, a real estate mogul and a competitor in many of Bruce’s ventures. By his side stood his daughter, Rachel Dare. She was a striking young woman with messy, curly red hair and a piercing look in her eyes. I felt a strange sense of familiarity, as if I had seen her before.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wayne,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. She looked at me, and then her eyes shifted to Dick, a flicker of something unreadable in them. "I'm so glad to hear the good news about Jason."

Just as the conversation turned to business, a loud, theatrical voice cut in. “Bruce! Darling, it's so wonderful to see you!” It was a socialite I recognized, her voice cutting through the din. "Did you hear? The McLeans are here. My daughter went to school with their girl, Piper. Can you imagine the drama?" The woman gave a short, sharp laugh, but her companion just rolled his eyes, a familiar Gotham gesture for the theatrics of the social circuit.

⊱✿⊰ Tim POV ⊱✿⊰ 

March 12, 2011 

Gotham 

I watched the interactions from a safe distance. The Dares. The news of William Dare’s expansion into Gotham real estate had been a hot topic on the business wires. Once upon a time the Drake’s would’ve been here. Everyone was here, a veritable who's-who of Gotham's elite. But it was all a show. The smiles were fake, the conversations were empty, and the air was thick with unspoken grief.

I saw the way Jason reacted to the mention of Percy. He was just as broken as Bruce and Dick, but in a different way. His grief was raw, unfiltered, and it was a look I recognized from the darkest parts of my own past. It was the look of someone who had lost a brother and then returned to a world that was still mourning him. He wasn't just grieving for Percy; he was grieving for the years they had lost, for the life that could have been.

I had tried to piece together the story. A car crash. A body found. Bruce and Dick had told me a little bit, but they had always skirted around the details. It was a wound that was too fresh to poke at. But I had my own questions. My own research.

A few months ago, I had found an old news report from a small town in New York. A car crash involving a bus full of kids. One of the victims was listed as an "unidentified male." I had checked the dates, the location, the details. It was around the same time Percy disappeared. The body was never identified, and the case was closed. It was just a small, insignificant detail. But it was enough to make my mind race. Was it possible that Percy wasn't the boy in the car crash? Could he be out there somewhere? I had been toying with the idea for months, but I hadn't had the heart to tell Bruce or Dick. They were finally healing. I couldn't give them false hope.

My thoughts were interrupted by Damian. He was standing beside me, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on our family.

“They are weak,” he said, his voice a low growl. “This ‘Perseus’ has a stronger hold on them than I, a son of the great Batman, do.”

I felt a small sense of sadness for him. He was a new member of the family, and he was trying so hard to understand the complex emotional landscape he had been thrown into. He saw a civilian, a phantom, a ghost. He didn't see the little boy who had made Bruce laugh, the one who had made Jason feel like he had a home.

“He was family, Damian,” I said softly. “He was Jason’s little brother, and he was Dick’s little brother. And he was our dad’s son. You don’t have to know someone to love them. You just have to be a part of their family.”

Damian said nothing, but his gaze remained fixed on the center of the room, on our family, who were all grieving a ghost I had never met. And I realized that no matter how much I wanted to be a part of their past, I couldn't be. All I could do was be here for them now, in their broken, healing present.

⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰

March 13, 2011

Wayne Manor, Gotham

7 months & 4 days since the end of the Second Titanomachy

1:56 P.M.

Percy shouldered his bag and stared up at the large wrought iron gate. Maybe he should’ve called ahead. This was a bad idea. Annabeth was only a couple blocks away from him. He could leave.

He had his story memorized, a tale woven by the Athena cabin and quizzed into him on the drive here.

This was a bad idea. 

Percy took a breath and squared his shoulders. He stepped through the gate. 

Percy was never known for having good ideas

Chapter Text

HELLO!! I have figured out a plot & timeline now. Due to changes in timeline and details I will be changing previous chapters around A LOT. Certain events will be removed/moved and little details will be added in. I do not have an uploading schedule YET. I have quarter finals this week and then fall break so you wont hear from me a lot this week but for the next two weeks after that expect updates!!

Changes Made:
1. Dates have now been added above each chapter that has a set POV. Locations and times are sometimes added::
Formatting will look something like this:
⊱✿⊰ Person POV ⊱✿⊰
Date
Location
Since
Time

2. Damian POV & one Tim POV is now in chapter 1 meaning it is 7 months prior to the main parts of the fic
3. Tim is the one who tried to join Percy's subreddit and was cussed out
4. Thursday in Gotham was added to chapter 5
5. Rachel and Piper both mention leaving camp Wednesday night because of their parents
6. Canon percy jackson & canon batfam is very changed in this fic- more changes will be revealed later so everything makes sense.
6. Percy went between living in Atlantis with his undersea fam and camp during the past 5 years

I will be making these changes now on September 22, 2025 @ 3:48 PM MST

Chapter Text

⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰ 

March 13, 2011

Wayne Manor, Gotham

7 Months & 12 days since end of the Second Giantomachy

When Percy was last in Wayne Manor he was 12. Snow covered the ground and pine scented the air. When Percy was last in Wayne Manor, pine didn’t smell like a boundary and Christmas didn’t smell like an underworld quest that ended with a titan named Bob. A titan who he left to die after they saved his life so many times over. Last time he was in the Manor Christmas wasn’t Cabin 11’s eggnog and the dryads peppermint.

When Percy was last in Wayne Manor he was in 6th grade. He sat in Bruce's office. He pretended he wasn’t shaking. The office smelt of alcohol.

The last time Percy was in Wayne Manor it was Christmas break. The last time he was in Wayne Manor he left after three days. The last time he was in Wayne Manor three didn’t represent quest trios and three brothers oaths. Three wasn't home as it is now.

When Percy last stood before this gate he had made a claw over his heart, as he had seen Grover do. He hadn’t known then that it was to ward off evil. When Percy was last in Gotham he was driving away to go back to Yancy Academy.

He hadn’t known that a few weeks from then that his math teacher would become a Fury and he would be expelled. He hadn’t known when he ditched Alfred to go to Grover’s ‘summer home’ for the weekend that he’d never return. He hadn’t known that Grover had ‘dropped out’ after he was expelled. He hadn’t known that it would be only after quests, wars, armies, and Hell that he’d return.

The world, somehow, in a miraculous fashion, did not come to a horrible end when he crossed the threshold into Wayne property. Percy wasn't sure whether to be happy or sad about that.

On one hand, he wouldn’t be blamed by at least three deities for almost-ending the world for the third—or was it the fifth?—time. On the other hand, he now owed Will twenty dollars. Di Immortals, how in Hades had he survived in a casino again? Oh right, because the casino was magical and…

He mentally shook the sarcastic monologue off and directed his face at the overcast sky. He wasn't even sure if it was clouds or the ever-present smog of Gotham obscuring the sun. Grover would hate it here. So would Bob. And Zoe.

Bob. Lost in the endless, suffocating darkness of Tartarus. And Damasen. He had promised Bob, had promised Iapetus, that he would say hello to the stars for him. He had promised to do that when he got out, when he was safe again. And he had. He had seen them, and he had whispered the greeting into the night, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. He had gotten out and they hadn't. Their sacrifice, their friendship, was another weight on his soul. Another two lives he couldn’t save.

And Zoe. Zoe Nightshade, a hunter of Artemis for thousands of years, had died saving him. Saving them. He had watched her fade into stardust, a beautiful and terrible end. He still saw it sometimes when he closed his eyes, the image of her, broken and dying, asking him if the stars looked bright tonight. The guilt was a physical thing, a crushing pressure in his chest that never went away. It was a constant, searing pain, a brand on his soul that even his hoodie couldn't hide. And he needed to take one more step. He was pretty sure that if the gate closed right now he’d be hit by it.

Unfortunately, one step onto the property didn’t exactly count. He’d promised Annabeth that he’d try. So, he would try.

Two steps. That was progress. What was it she had said on the ride here? How do you eat an elephant? Why would he even want to eat an elephant, anyway? Right. Not important. One bite at a time. No more than you can chew. That’s what was important. One piece at a time. He had walked through the Underworld multiple times. He could walk on a paved driveway less than 20 more feet.

He considered running. A faint echo of another time, another impossible choice, rippled through his mind.

Thalia grimaced. “Well, don’t just stand there! I’ll be fine. Go!” 

We didn’t want to leave her, but he could hear Kronos laughing as he approached the hall of the gods. More buildings exploded. 

“We’ll be back,” he promised.

 “I’m not going anywhere,” Thalia groaned. 

A fireball erupted on the side of the mountain, right near the gates of the palace.

“We’ve got to run,” he said. 

"I don't suppose you mean away," Grover murmured hopefully. 

He sprinted toward the palace, Annabeth right behind him. 

"I was afraid of that," Grover sighed, and clip-clopped after them. 

The Wayne Manor loomed in the distance as Percy slowly approached. As though if he went more carefully, more slowly, it would hurt less. It didn’t work with band-aids, but it could work here. His duffel bag dug into his shoulder. The ache grounded him. The bag was blue. Blue like the sky never seen in this city. Blue like Sally Jackson’s food. Blue like the sea.

 Her blue eyes shone with fear. Clarisse never looked like that. And she didn't have blue eyes. Clarisse didn’t have blue eyes.

Her features, once beautiful, were badly burned from poison. I could tell that no amount of nectar or ambrosia would save her. Something is about to happen. Rachel's words rang in my ears. A trick that ends in death. Now I knew what she meant, and I knew who had led the Ares cabin into battle. I looked down at the dying face of Silena Beauregard. 

He felt like a kid again. A kid who never really belonged. Not in this world. He kicked a pebble on the path a few times like it was a soccer ball. It skittered into the perfectly-kept lawn. Alfred’s perfectly-kept lawn.

He tugged his hoodie sleeves down again. Technically, it was Clarisse’s old hoodie—the damn giant. The sleeves hid the scars. They hid the brand. They hid the past and the truth. Maybe he’d tell them one day. But first… first he had to tell them he was actually alive.

Suddenly, there was a door. It was large and wooden and imposing and scary, and it was home.

It was funny, a place he used to know so well became such an alien place to him. This was his home. But then he turned twelve.

Percy raised a fist. His throat constricted. For the first time in years, his hand shook. In the face of monsters and myth, he held a steady hand. A steady, slashing sword. Yet before this building of ancient brick—and so, so many memories—the soldier's hand shook.

He held his hand above the door. Frozen. Trying to remember how to breathe. In, out. Count to ten.

What if Jason was happy that he was gone? What if Percy was only a nuisance, a burden all those years ago? What if he still was? What if Jason had actually been alive since the end of his first quest? What if he was angry that Percy never came home? He had asked—no he’d practically begged—his uncle for Jason’s life back then. But Hades remained more stoic than Percy had ever seen him, even to this day.

‘No one can hate you with more intensity than someone who used to love you.’ Who told Percy that? Reyna? A hunter? A hunter told Reyna? Annabeth? What if they didn’t even love him in the first place, though? Why should they? He was just some street orphan. They had never even met before Bruce was signing those papers like it was nothing. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Jason was only being nice because Bruce asked him to and—

He took another shaky breath. He forgot how Gotham tasted after all these years. The mix of smog and acid and somehow comfort. He straightened his posture—just as Dick had taught him to do at galas all those years ago—and pushed his fears down, burying them under a lifetime of pain and a hero’s smile.

Even if he was a fractured, guilt-ridden mess, they deserved some semblance of him. Jason did.

Percy knocked.

The door swung inward, not with a creak or a bang, but with a silent, well-oiled efficiency that was as unmistakably “Wayne Manor” as the oppressive sense of history that clung to the air. And there stood Alfred Pennyworth.

His back was straight, his suit impeccable as always. A silver tray was balanced in one hand, a half-empty teacup perched on top. For a moment, his face was the same mask of polite neutrality Percy remembered from years ago. Then his gaze, sharp and perceptive, met Percy’s eyes, and the facade cracked. The tray tilted precariously, and Alfred quickly righted it. His lips, usually a thin, disapproving line, parted slightly in a silent gasp. His whole body seemed to sag with a profound relief that was almost heartbreaking to see.

"Master Percy?" he said, his voice a low, disbelieving rumble. It wasn't a question, but a statement of absolute certainty, as if he'd known all along that Percy would one day stand on this doorstep again.

Percy felt a lump form in his throat. He had faced down giants and gods, but this single, unadulterated moment of affection was a force of nature he was completely unprepared for. The guilt clawed at him, sharper now. He didn't deserve this relief, this warmth. He had abandoned them.

"Hey, Alfred," he managed, his voice hoarse. "I, uh… I'm home." The word still felt alien. He was home. The word felt like a lie on his tongue. He was a visitor in his own past. He was a survivor, even when he shouldn’t have been.

A single, crystalline tear slipped from the corner of Alfred’s eye and traced a path down his cheek. He set the tea tray down on a nearby side table with a faint clink. Without a word, he took a step forward and enveloped Percy in a hug that was both firm and impossibly gentle. It was the hug of a man who had not only raised him but also buried a child he had come to love as his own.

In that embrace, the weight of the last six years—the monsters, the quests, the pain, the guilt, the constant, gnawing fear—crashed down on Percy all at once. His arms went around the older man, and he buried his face in Alfred's shoulder, taking in the familiar scent of starched fabric and Earl Grey tea. He had never realized how much he missed it, nor how undeserving he felt of it. Every comfort was a reminder of what he had denied himself, and more importantly, what he had denied them.

"We thought you were… We feared the worst," Alfred murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He pulled back just enough to look at Percy, his hands resting on the boy's shoulders. His eyes swept over Percy's face, taking in the faint scars and the haunted look in his sea-green eyes, a look that had no business being on a seventeen-year-old’s face. "The world has not been kind to you, has it, Master Percy?"

Percy shook his head, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. He just stood there, letting himself be held, letting himself be home, even as the conflicting feelings of relief and suffocating guilt warred within him. He was here, he was alive, but was he truly back? Or was he just another ghost coming to haunt them?

Speaking of ghosts…Percy stepped back from Alfred's worn hands and shouldered his bag again. Clearing his throat, “Is…is it…” his throat tightened again and his voice choked up, “Is it true? Is Jason really…?” The last part came out as a whisper and the sentence finished not in words but in emotions, in a plea.

“Ah…Indeed.” Alfred nodded in understanding. “I shall summon the rest of the family for dinner. Jason included. He no longer lives here but his room still remains. Yours as well although you may need new clothes…You’ve grown quite tall Young Master Percy.”

That…surprised Percy. He thought that they would’ve surely removed his room. They had many new wards now and well…he was presumed dead. Then again, the manor was big enough that everyone could’ve probably had 5 rooms and there’d still be more left over.

“May I take your bag Master Percy?”

Percy shook his head, still processing.

“Well then, I suppose I must warn you. Bruce has taken in a few new children and they are almost as chaotic as you and Jason were. Master Tim was in some of your classes at Gotham Academy, back in the 5th grade, do you remember him?”

No. Not from school at the least. Percy kept up with mortal news when he could. And the last few days he had been researching Gotham gossip. Out loud he said, “Yeah I remember him. Not well though.” He pushed the hair back from his eyes as Alfred continued.

They had now moved more inside, the house remained as Percy remembered it. Large, decorated in a way that screamed rich, and…empty. Alfred listed the rest of the wards as he led Percy up the stairs but he wasn’t really listening. He bet he knew all the information anyway. The life of a celebrity is not a private one.

The house felt all too familiar yet all too different. The halls were the same. The walls weren’t. Family portraits hung. Children added in each one. He was only in one picture of the many. 

One of the portraits is painted. Skillfully so. The name in the bottom corner was impossible for his dyslexia to decipher but he saw the swirled D. He saw the proudly displayed title of “The Wayne Family” atop the painting. He saw an older, more worn Jason. He saw people he had only seen online. He saw Alfred. He saw Bruce. He saw pets. A dog and cat beside the obvious youngest in the picture. He did not see himself.

He walked past like he didn’t notice. He followed the trail of Alfred like a shadow. A ghost. An empty remnant of the boy who used to live here. 

The pair stops outside a messily painted blue door. Alfred stopped speaking at one point. Percy isn’t sure when.

“Now then, I shall leave you to get unpacked Master Percy. Dinner is at 7pm in the dining hall. Welcome back home. We missed you.”

Home. It felt different when Alfred said it. It felt real. When Percy said it… Percy had long since stopped calling the Manor home in earnest since that night.

He smiled sadly at the old man's words, not cruel enough to correct the aged man before nodding and pushing the wooden door open. It feels heavier than the golden doors to The Throne Room.

For a moment he stands in the doorway. Surveying. 

It's the same. His bed remains made, not in Alfred’s professional perfect way but in a twelve year olds messy pillow placement and a blanket laid across with wrinkles in it. 

The desk holds an abandoned “First Semester 6th Grade Yancy Math” work book and a broken pencil. The wall is painted a messy mix of blues by the ghosts of a young Jason and Percy. The window looks onto the roof where Percy would often go and sit. The closet holds clothes of a scrawny tween. The bathroom is painted with seashells and starfish. The toothbrush is blue and lays forgotten on the counter as a stale toothpaste was thrown next to it. The bean bag (also obviously blue) is unfluffed and dented in the shape of a small human ball. 

He never decorated much. The room never felt like his to him. He was just a kid who Bruce Wayne let stay. A charity case. The paint was Jason’s idea. They were bored.

Percy’s mom painted the walls blue. Gabe would paint them red in splotches. His and mom’s splotches.

The room feels much too big and much too small. The air smells like the candles his mom would always buy and later him. The air feels thick yet somehow dust covers not a single surface. 

He could unpack later. He was tired goddammit and dinner was going to be worse than when the Greeks first ate with the Romans.

Percy feels horrible when he wakes up. His body aches all over and it's too hot and too cold and too stuffy all at the same time.

He’s not sure where he is. He’s lying flat against something solid. It’s not a bed. It’s not a floor. Not concrete or wood. It’s warm under his fingertips. He opens his eyes and registers the burning toxicity along his skin and in his lungs and eyes.

No. No.

He wants to deny it. To say and think and believe that it isn’t real but he can’t- he can’t deny that he’s lying on flesh. Sick, bare, flesh. And the smoggy horrible air does not belong to Gotham mornings but instead Tartarus. He’s back. He’s in Tartarus.

It’s too real to be a dream. He’s on his feet now and his body- his aching tired body- is fully in his control. He clenches and unclenches his shaking fists. He pulls out Riptide. The blade made of a friend's sacrifice and the weapon that has slaughtered so many in his hands. His heart thundered in his head.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on how he got here- he just needs to go. 

(Maybe it’s because they finally realized what a monster he is. That’s why he’s back. Back to the home of demons and the place where monsters thrive. Where he thrived-was more powerful than he was-than he is anywhere else and-Son of Poseidon. Poseidon, Father of Monsters)

Except, Percy got rid of his only way out half a year ago. He looks around and is greeted by the hellish landscape and red glow and he feels the five rivers pumping through the primordial’s body. He swallows the little saliva that pools in his mouth in preparation to throw up.  He turns around and-

The ground starts to crumble and he’s running across a failing bridge and when the dust settles Percy turns to see Luke-Luke with gold eyes-Kronos staring at him across a 20 meter chasm. He’s covered in dust that matches Kronos’s eyes and immortal blood. 

He turns to thank Michael Yew, but the words die in his throat. Five metres away, a bow lay in the street. Its owner was nowhere to be seen.

“No!” The shout sounds more like an animal mourning than words. He searched the wreckage on his side of the bridge. He stares down at the river. Nothing. He yelled in anger and frustration. The sound carried forever in the morning stillness. He was about to whistle for Blackjack to help him search when his phone rang. The LCD display said he had a call from Finkelstein & Associates – probably a demigod calling on a borrowed phone. He picked up, hoping for good news. Of course, he was wrong. ‘Percy?’ Silena Beauregard sounded like she’d been crying. ‘Plaza Hotel. You better come quickly and bring-’

Silena is standing in front of him. There are tears streaming down her beautiful face as she steps forward and takes his hand. She’s wearing Clarisse’s armour. She’s wearing the armour.

“Percy,” She says quietly. “I did it for Charlie. You have to know what I was promised. I wanted to stop helping him, but he threatened to tell. He promised … he promised I was saving lives. Fewer people would get hurt. He told me he wouldn’t hurt – Charlie. He lied to me.”

“I know,” He tries to say, but no sound leaves his throat. She stares at him, her blue eyes catching in the faint light, and then her face starts to melt. Percy watches in horror, unable to tear his eyes away, as her face gives way to a skull. Somehow, she’s still standing. The armour has melted to fit her lithe form.

“You have to know, Percy,” She begs. “You have to know that it isn’t personal.” Silena took a heavy, painful breath. “Forgive me.” 

(And he can remember the last time this happened when Clarisse insisted that the daughter of love and beauty would not-was not dying and the fallen hero speaking of meeting her lover too soon. Because neither of them should’ve needed to meet each other that way.)

He steps back but instead of falling into the river beneath the broken bridge he steps onto the board a ship he has too many memories of and a giant has a hand around Beckendorf’s neck and Beckendorf’s mouthing go while raising his free arm slowly towards the watch. Beckendorf closed his eyes tight and brought his hand up to his watch.

The world shakes and a cruise goes up in green flame. The flames circle and dance around Percy as telkhines throw clumps of lava at him and all he can feel is pain, pain, pain searing and tearing through his body as he reaches deep and lets go.

Then he’s hurdling through the air and stumbling up after being thrown and he’s back stumbles into someone and he turns-

Blue eyes. Blue, blue, blue, blue. Luke’s blue eyes stare into his as his arms grip Percy’s shoulders and he can’t move because Luke’s eyes are blue and-

“You know what they did,” He says evenly, his voice lacking any venom or contempt as he looks emptily at Percy. He tries to wrench himself out of the other boy’s grip to no avail. “You know what you did.”

The air is red and hot and he knows, he knows instinctually that he’s back and then, without effort, one of the chambers in Tartarus’ heart explodes, sending the river of fire cascading down around Percy. He shakes his head faintly. 

“I didn’t…”

“You can’t be fixed,” Annabeth says quietly. He tries to turn to face her, but he’s rooted to the spot. 

Annabeth slips out from behind him.

There’s a gaping hole in her chest, right between her ribcage. Her spine curves forward out of it, bits of her stomach and lungs peeking out around split bones, although she somehow manages to stand upright. Blood drips from her eyes and mouth like Achlys, and Percy can’t move. 

The scene changes. He’s back on his first quest and he’s bargaining with Hades for Jason back- asking if he at least got to die peacefully, if he at least gets elysium and if not that when Percy dies-if Percy achieves elysium-then Jason should take his place instead. Hades is gazing at him uninterestedly and moves the conversation on and ignores him-”You shall fail to save what matters most, in the end”

Green smoke spills out of the mummy’s mouth and Gabe is talking. Gabe who murdered his mother and-

Percy jolts awake, sprinting to the bathroom he vomits his stomach out. The tile feels cool against his back. His throat is dry and scratchy and he knows that he was choking out sobs and pleads in his sleep.

At some point in his life he learned not to scream. He’s grateful for that.

When he looks in the mirror his eyes are red and raw. Tears cling to his lashes and his skin has a deathlike pallor. He’s always been tan so it’s not too bad…He checks his phone. Dinner is in 2 two hours. He slept for three hours. He looks back in the mirror. His hair looks worse than a rats-nest. For second he sees dirt and blood mixed in his tangled hair and he’s wearing glowing bronze armour as-

He unpacks. Tries not to think too much. He fails. 

Unzip. Take out the shirts and hang them. Refold his pants and tuck them into drawers, weapons placed in easy areas to grab. New toothbrush and toothpaste in the bathroom. Old ones in the trash. The band poster Thalia gave him on one wall and photos from years at camp framed and scattered throughout the room. He threw the blanket the Athena cabin knitted for him on the bean bag and the emergency med kit in his closet.

He glances at himself in the mirror again. He rearranges his shirts. By color. Then by size. Then he rearranges them in order he got them. Then least favorite to most. Again by color.

He steps under the shower and wills the water to touch him. He scrubs at nothing with soap and spends minutes untangling and shampooing his hair. It’s lavender scented. 

When he steps out he wills himself dry. Pulls on an old camp shirt and shorts. The shirt is so worn that the only letters remaining are “A  P  L - B    D” and the pegasus looks more like a bird. He picks at the peeling logo for a bit before checking his phone. It’s 5:47. After a moment of debate with himself he calls Piper. Once she got over her prejudice against all things ‘girly’ she became his go-to for fashion. 

(It used to be Silena. Who taught Percy how to do make-up and nails because she was bored and not enough of her siblings stayed year-round. Because she didn’t have enough siblings anymore. Not after the Battle of the Labyrinth. That was when they did it for the first time. When she called him in and asked what color he wanted-)

“Hey Percy! How’s it going so far?”

“Hey Pipes! So…dilema.” He kept his voice cheerful.

She hummed on the other side, “Fashion related?”

“Yup!” He popped the p.

“What for?”

“Well…what would you wear to your first dinner with your family who thought you were dead for the past six years?”

“....”

“....”

“Let’s video call.”

“Oh! Yea-of course” He fumbled with the tiny device until he hit the right button to turn it into a video call. Her face fills up the screen and it’s clear to see she’s not in her cabin. 

“Where are you?”

“Remember the party I was going to with my dad?”

“Ohhh,” 

“Ugh. Just lemme see what clothes you have” Piper props her phone up on a mirror and starts rebraiding her hair.

“Ok ok, just give me a sec.”

“Do you have any ideas for what you want to wear?” She asks as he walks over.

“Hm? Oh. Well definitely long sleeves to…hide the scars and everything.”

“Naturally. Any specific colors?” she teases.

“Eh. I actually don’t care much” he shrugs.

Surprised, Piper continues questioning, “Ok…Then what jewelry did you bring?”

“Just some studs. Different colored stones. Ooh, wait. Lou Ellen gave me a new one when I said I was leaving. Just a prototype but apparently it wards off monsters?”

“Lemme see!” Piper makes grabby hands at the screen.

He shows her, it’s much like his others. A small stone, a glitzy silver that sparked in the light. 

(He got his first earring from a different daughter of Aphrodite. It was a simple blue stone. She had just wanted to peirce someone's ears. She was 13. She fought in a war that year. She became head of a cabin at thirteen.)

“How fancy is the dinner?”

“Uhm..Just at home.”

“OK, so not too fancy?”

“Eh” he makes a so-so gesture with his hand where she can see it.

“How much do you care? Scale of 1-7. Are you willing to sacrifice comfortable pants?”

Percy debates for a few moments, it being a serious question after all. “Why scale of 1-7?”

“Why not?”

“Fair.” He considers again for a minute, “I refuse to give up comfy jeans.”

“Mmkay. Wear your crappy jeans skater boy”

“They’re not that bad!”

“They look like you got them from Nico”

Percy placed a heart to his hand in mock offence, “You wound me, beauty queen!”

“Ok Mr. Prince of 70% of the whole damn planet”.

Percy groaned, burying his face in his hands, “Why do you always bring that up. Tri is the heir anyways!” He whined.

“Perseus Jackson. You have a crown.”

“Is not a crown. It’s a coronet.”

“The fact you know that is proof in and of itself. Who complains about lessons on how to be royalty?”

“Amphirite is amazing but takes her job way too seriously.”

“What is her job?”

“Step-mom, queen of the ocean, etc.”

“And yet you still can’t dress yourself.”

“Hey!”

Piper snorted, “Button-up under the sweater but untuck the collar around the neckline. Maybe add some silver jewelry so your camp necklace doesn’t look too out of place.”

“Yes, ma’am” he gave her a salute as he slipped out to change. 

He heard her laugh from the other room.

He checked the (newly improved) watch Tyson gave him. 6:03. He still had a lot of time. He went to the closet to grab his phone before placing it on his bathroom counter, effectively showing Piper the whole outfit.

For a while, they just talk. Piper updates him on camp drama, celebrity drama. She has to leave. She makes him set an alarm.

When the call is over he lays back on his bed. He stares up at the ceiling, the four poster bed, the blue, blue, blue curtains he and Jason used to close to create their own little sanctum. Jason would bring a light in and read to Percy until his eyes weighed more than the sky and when they opened again sunlight streamed in from every window. Somehow they always managed to be tucked in when they woke up. Somehow on those nights Percy didn’t get nightmares. 

The bed is so much unlike his bed in Cabin 3, his bed in Atlantis. And not in the way that comes from the mattress brand or blankets material.

Then his phone alarm rings. It's a quiet, unassuming thing. He ignores it expertly. Avoidance is easy. Tempting, too. Unfortunately, he couldn’t avoid dinner. Alfred is a force to be reckoned with and Percy would sooner show respect to Zeus before believing that changed. Percy sits up with a groan and eyes the door like it might pounce on him. This is going to be a shit show. 

⊱✿⊰ Jason POV ⊱✿⊰ 

March 13, 2011

Wayne Manor, Gotham

6:56 PM

Jason was, understandably, pissed. He went to the damn gala. Paraded around like an exhibit, ignored that this time there was no kid to tug on his sleeve and pull him over to the desert table. No kid to complain about the lack of blue in everything. No kid to blame his ADHD to escape earlier and leave Jason behind with a smug smirk and wink. No kid. 

He went to the gala and he acted like everything was fine. Acted like he didn’t see green and ghosts.

So why was he called back to the Manor? Not even the bat cave. The Manor. Alfred had summoned everyone. He didn't even give a reason. Just said to be in the main dining hall by 6:55. Jason was here for dessert. That’s what he claimed to himself at least.

He parked his beat up motorcycle and ambled up to the door with the joy of a man walking to his execution. He considered for a moment. He went around the back. Maybe he could just sneak some cookies and spot Alfred in the kitchen. He came. That didn’t mean he had to stay.

⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰ 

March 13, 2011

Wayne Manor, Gotham

7 Months & 12 days since end of the Second Giantomachy

7:02 PM

Somehow the trek through the house felt all too small. It was a lazy walk he settled into, hands in pockets.

He focused on nothing. His gaze swept the hall but saw nothing. He remembered when the grandeur of this house stunned him. After Olympus and Hade’s palace, after living in his father’s realm for half the year, nothing could compare. How could you compare mortal to godly riches? To Annabeth’s architecture. Oh gods Annabeth. Percy tried to imagine Bruce giving a shovel talk. He failed.

There were more crime-fighting furries in Gotham now. He wondered how the Batman was doing. He wondered how Robin was doing. He was 90% it was a new Robin now. Different from the one that found him. The one that saved him.

The cold on the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge was a living thing, a biting, damp chill that clung to everything. But for the small, solitary figure perched on the bridge’s edge, it was a familiar ghost. He was curled up, a bundle of scrawny limbs in a ripped-up hoodie, his knees pulled to his chest as he stared into the swirling blackness of the Gotham River below. The rain had stopped, but the air felt heavy, suffocating. He didn't seem to notice. He was a universe away, lost in the river's pull.

"What are you doing out here, kid?"

The voice was a muffled call from the wind, making him flinch. "I'm not a kid." His voice was small, but the defiance in it was a sharp thing, a blade honed by the streets. He was barely nine, a runaway, a survivor, not a kid.

A blur of red and green landed softly beside him. Robin. "How old are you then?" Robin’s voice was even, calm. Too calm.

"How old are you?" the boy shot back, uncurling slowly, letting one leg dangle over the side. The casual movement sent a jolt of panic through Robin's carefully maintained composure.

"Older than you," Robin said, his voice a little strained.

"Well, you act like a three-year-old."

"What?! How?!"

"You go around with a furry and dress like a traffic light to punch criminals." The boy watched Robin's face twist with confusion. A small, dry smile touched his lips. It felt good to mock someone. It felt like winning.

"A furry?" Robin asked, the absurdity of the insult making him laugh, a short, sharp bark. "You mean Batman? You’re a harsh critic," Robin said, the smile in his voice evident. The kid had a fire in his eyes, a spark of life he hadn't expected to find out here on the cold edge of a bridge.

"Says the guy in spandex," Percy shot back, the familiar rhythm of banter a comforting thing.

"It's not spandex! It's armor!" Robin protested, pushing his chest out.

"Mhmm..." Percy hummed, full of doubt.

"What's your name?" Robin asked, the question softening his tone, pulling him out of the friendly squabble.

"....Jackson."

"I'm Robin."

"Furry."

"Robins are birds. They don't have fur."

"Feathery," Percy declared with a shrug, refusing to yield.

"How are you not cold?" Robin asked, watching Percy’s feet swing over the river. The boy seemed completely unaffected by the bitter wind.

Percy shrugged again. "I'm not the one wearing speedos like they're clothes."

"They're not speedos!!" Robin sputtered, a genuine huff of frustration escaping him. "And you still haven't answered my question. What are you even doing out here?" His voice turned serious again, trying to cut through the banter and get to the heart of the matter.

Percy stopped swinging his legs. The playful fire in his eyes died, replaced by a haunting sadness. He looked from Robin to the dark water below. "I feel like... everything will just be okay if I jump, you know?" His words were quiet, but they hung in the air, heavy with a longing that was more than just childish despair. "I feel like I'm supposed to be there."

The river below seemed to pulse with an unseen energy, a dark, comforting promise that called out to him. It whispered his name, a song he felt in his bones. I am here. Come home. But as he leaned forward, a different voice in his head, his mother's, screamed in protest. You’re not an idiot, Percy. You know you want to live. You know you’ll die. Why do you feel like it’ll be safe?

Robin looked Percy up and down, his eyes lingering on the fresh cuts on his arms and the gash on his forehead. "You should come with me. Commissioner Gordon is pretty nice with kids, you know."

Percy stared out at the dark horizon, the line where the ocean met the sky. His eyes were a stormy gray-green, like a deep vortex with no end. He heard his mother's voice, a ghost in the wind, whispering, "Percy, you can always go back to the sea."

"What's the point?" Percy's voice was flat, empty. "If I go with you, they'll just put me in the system, and I'll end up with another jerk like Gabe. I'd rather jump." He let his eyes drift down to the churning water. 

Robin sucked in a sharp breath. He muttered something into his earpiece, his voice low and urgent. "...found...bridge...jump..."

After a few tense moments, Robin sat down next to him, his feet dangling over the edge just like Percy's. "I get it. The system sucks," he said, his voice surprisingly earnest, raw with his own past. "But you could get lucky. There are some good families out there."

But Percy wasn't listening. His shoulders started to shake. A new family wouldn't fix anything. It wouldn't bring his mom back. He just wanted to go back to what he had, to what was his. To be safe.

"I don't want a new family," Percy whispered, his voice cracking. "That bastard killed my old one. My mom... she-" The words broke into sobs, raw and ragged. The images came crashing back: glass and blood and beer and screams. The world around him started to go out of focus, his mind retreating somewhere safe. He was back in the apartment, but he wasn't there. He was somewhere else, far away, watching the scene from a distance. The cold on his skin was gone, replaced by a strange numbness.

He heard a voice, far off, maybe Robin's, but the words were a jumble of sound. He just wanted to get away from everything, from the mess and the noise. He wanted to go home. To his mom.

A gentle hand touched his back, another on his shoulder. It was a large man, but the touch was soft, reassuring. Percy didn't fight. He was pulled away from the edge, away from the screaming and the pain.

Suddenly, he was somewhere dark and safe. It was like he was at the bottom of the ocean. He couldn't hear the sirens or the whispers of the city. There were no more voices or screams. Just a vast, silent, peaceful darkness. He let the hiccups fall into soft sobs, letting the quiet hold him as he cried. He missed his mom. He missed his home. He missed New York-even if he could barely remember it. He missed his moms accent that always seemed to irritate Gabe. He missed food that wasn’t scavenged. He missed sleep. His body ached, but the pain felt like it belonged to someone else. He was so cold, but even that felt distant. The darkness just held him, rocking him gently. After a few minutes, his breathing evened out, and exhaustion washed over him. He was asleep before he realized it.

Gods he must’ve sounded suicidal back then. It’s not like they knew the water would actually heal him. That the water would take him to his father. He wondered what would’ve happened had he actually jumped. He remembers the pull. The pull of home. Gods he really seemed suicidal.

He wonders if they would even recognize him. Alfred did. That’s one point.

He wonders if Alfred already told them. If not, well Percy has sprung worse surprises.

Percy hears talking from behind the door. Arguing. He hopes they didn’t eat all of Alfred’s rolls already.

It’s a good thing Percy is very food motivated. 

He takes a deep breath and reaches for the handle.

A glass shatters somewhere behind Percy.

“What. The. Fuck.”

Chapter Text

⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰ 

March 13, 2011

Wayne Manor, Gotham

7 Months & 12 days since end of the Second Giantomachy

7:02 PM

He takes a deep breath and reaches for the handle.

A glass drops and shatters somewhere behind Percy.

“What. The. Fuck.”

Slowly, Percy turns, and there, alive as can be, is Jason. He’s now built like an Ares kid (AKA a truck) and looks shocked. Which, fair, Percy reacted the same to Jason’s return. “Hey, Jace. You look-” before he can say anything else he’s enveloped in a crushing hug, strong arms wrapped around him and a hand supporting his head. He feels like a little kid again. He tenses. 

“What the fuck what the fuck what the fu-”

“Your glass broke. Alfred is going to be pissed. I also am 90% sure that’s like twenty bucks in his swear jar and-” Percy’s voice is soft as he rambles on, like he always does when he’s nervous. He hasn't returned the hug yet. He's still a little shocked. Seeing it was…different. 

Jason pulls back and punches his arm lightly, “Shut up. Is this real? They-they said…” his voice trails off to a whisper.

“Uhh, yeah…” Percy clears his throat, “I saw the uhm I saw an article online that you were alive and well-thought I might join the whole ‘Surprise! Not dead!’ club you’ve got going on.” After a thought Percy threw in jazz hands. “Ta da!” Why not? Wouldn’t be the stupidest thing he’s done. Not by a long mile.

“Perce. Do-does anyone else know? Oh god is this why Alfred called me here today?  What happened? When did you get here? Where have you been this whole time? What happened?”

“What happened to you? You died first, you explain your story first.”

“Thats…It’s not really a story you want to hear. Not before dinner.”

“Then when?”

“...Later”

“And when exactly is later?”

“Percy. I think we should first address that there are people, or rather a person, who’ll murder me if he finds out I’ve been keeping you from him-even if it's only been like 5 minutes-behind that door.”

“Dick could not murder you.”

“I like how you say that like him trying is a possibility” Jason replies dryly.

Percy shrugs, “Great subject change by the way.”

Jason opens his mouth to say something but Percy has slipped out of his grasp and with a final, fuck it, he opens the door.

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The door opens to a dining hall and several things happen as all the people in the room glance towards the door.

A few forks fell. A few people freeze. A few sit still. Some in confusion others in shock. The man at the head of the table completely stills, water glass still on its way to his mouth.

From the doorway a teen smirks and tries to look relaxed. Behind him a man looks a strange mix of confused, proud, and pissed.

The butler continues on as if life were normal. He reprimands the two standing just outside the room.

“Master Jason, I believe I requested your presence more than 10 minutes ago. Master Percy. I recall that look on your face always meant trouble and I do not wish to clean food off the ceiling again.” He placed the fresh plate of rolls in the center of the table and for the first time no one immediately reaches for them.

The second after the man left the room erupted into chaos.

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“Percy?”  Dick stands up so quickly his chair falls over and slams his silverware onto the table. You’d think he was running for his life with how quickly he went.

“Tt. How uncivilized Richard.”

Dick ignores the young boy in favor of reaching for the teen, blue eyes searching his face desperately. Sharp sea green eyes stare back. “Wha- Where? Is it really you?”

(The other teen in the room reaches for several rolls but no one pays him any mind. Underneath the table he starts typing.)

Dick reaches his hand out hesitantly, cupping Percy’s face. Percy hates how he has to concentrate to make sure he doesn’t flinch.

“Hey Dick. Or do you go by Richard now? Either is good.” Percy fidgets with his sweater cuff, avoiding Dick’s eyes. He talks too fast for his casual tone of voice.

“Perseus Achilles. Is this real? Are you real? Is this what Alfred meant when he said he had a surprise?”

“Uh-yeah I guess. I got here early this afternoon.”

“Percy.” The low rumble of Bruce’s voice cut through the conversation.

“B,” The tension was palpable, Jason and Dick moving in front of Percy’s sides as if to shield him. “If you want me to leave I will.” Percy's voice was strong and his sharp blue-green eyes stared back at Bruce. Dick and Jason immediately turn and start protesting, voices overlapping.

“No one wants you to leave Master Percy.” Alfred’s British accent cut through the room. Bruce may have sat at the head of the table but they all really knew who was in charge. “You're a Wayne and this is your home. It always has been.  For now, eat your dinners.  You can discuss it in the study afterwards.”

The three brothers move in tandem to sit down. 

The dinner is awkward and silent. Painfully so. The young one, Damian, Percy remembers, reminds him a lot of Nico. Emo, glare-y, looks about to murder him. Cute kid.

Tim looks like Bruce. Removed. Looks at Percy like he’s something to be solved. Something to be fixed. Percy immediately doesn’t like him. Dick and Jason both glance at Percy as if to check he’s still there. Percy does the same to Jason. 

He eats but not much. Never much. Living off of scraps and whatever was foraged did that to you. Living in the deepest pit for what felt like three months does that to you. It was only two weeks. Outside that is. Percy knew better than anyone what magic does to time. Time had never liked him much. 

He managed to swallow a roll. A spoonful of mashed potatoes. Anymore and his stomach would force it out. Percy knew that well. He already felt sick from that meager amount. Even after 7 months that place still haunted him. At least the dreams were better now. Percy wasn’t sure he’d ever truly be free of the pit's grasp.

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⊱✿⊰ Jason POV ⊱✿⊰ 

March 13, 2011

Wayne Manor Study, Gotham

8:12 PM

The room had gone silent again, and Jason watched the muscles in Percy’s jaw tense. He knew what was coming. This wasn’t a family reunion anymore; it was an interrogation. Bruce was in full detective mode, and Percy was the subject.

Alfred left them to their silence, and for a few minutes, it was nice. He could see his younger brother, his little Perce, and he was here. He was alive. It was the only thing Jason cared about. Damian, as always, was being a brat, but it didn't bother him. This was the most tense he had ever seen him. Tim, too, was quiet. Jason sat next to Percy on the couch, his presence a solid weight, and Jason could feel Percy trying to ground himself.

Then Bruce broke the silence.

“Percy, where were you for the past five years?” he began, his voice a low rumble.

Percy’s shoulders tensed. “I was… I was with family. Found my biological dad.”

“How? Why didn’t you call us? Why did you never reach out?” Bruce’s voice wasn’t angry, not exactly. It was too quiet for that, too analytical. This was the voice he used when he was piecing together a case file. He was trying to find the missing puzzle pieces, and Percy was the biggest one.

“It’s complicated,” Percy said, his voice flat. He fidgeted with the cuff of his shirt, a familiar nervous habit. Jason had always seen him do it as a kid.

Dick, who had been sitting across from them on the coffee table, leaned forward. “Perce, we thought you were dead. We went to your funeral. We buried an empty casket. What happened?”

“I- I can’t tell you,” Percy said, his eyes darting around the room, avoiding everyone. He was a cornered animal, and the way Bruce was talking, I knew he felt like he was being hunted.

“I have a right to know, Percy,” Bruce said, the name sounding a little too sharp. “Your disappearance, a supposed car crash… none of it adds up. Where did you go? Who took you?”

Jason could see the defiance in Percy's eyes, the fire that he’d seen in him so many times as a kid. He was pushing back. Jason felt the tension, a palpable force in the room.

“Nobody took me,” Percy snapped. His voice was too loud for the quiet room. “I left. I had to. And I can’t tell you why.”

Tim, ever the pragmatist, chimed in. “But you could have sent a letter. You could have called. You’re here now, why didn’t you come sooner?”

Jason saw it happen in slow motion. The last question was the one that broke him. Percy’s face hardened. He was done.

“I don’t owe any of you an explanation,” he said, his voice a low growl. His eyes looked as though they glowed green in the lighting. Jason sincerely hoped it was just the lighting. Percy shot up from the couch, his chair scraping loudly across the hardwood floor. “I’m not on trial here.”

“Perseus,” Bruce said, his voice firm. He reached out to grab Percy’s arm, but Percy was already halfway to the door.

“Don’t,” Percy said, his voice cold. He didn’t even look at them as he walked out, the door slamming shut behind him. The sound echoed in the silent room.

Jason sat there for a second, mind racing. Bruce looked like he always did. Unbothered, bigger than life itself. Dick was frozen, his mouth agape. 

“I’m going,” Jason said, getting up from the couch. He had to. He knew what this was. He’d lived this. He didn’t know the details of Percy’s five years, but he knew what it felt like to be a ghost to your family, to come back and be looked at like an anomaly. It was the worst feeling in the world. More than anything, Jason knew Percy.

He didn’t run after him. He walked. Jason wanted to give him a few minutes to himself. He followed the sound of Percy’s footsteps, which led him to the conservatory. He was sitting there, staring at the night sky through the glass ceiling, curled up into a ball.

“Perce,” Jason said softly.

He didn't turn around. “Just go away, Jay. I’m not in the mood for a lecture.”

“I’m not here to lecture,” he said, walking towards him. He stopped a few feet away, respecting his space. “I’ve spent so long believing you were dead. I’m not leaving again.”

He didn’t respond, simply staring up at the cloud-filled sky. Jason sat beside him. Close enough to let Percy know he was there, far enough to not pressure him-to give him space.

“I thought it would be comforting. Not seeing the stars.”

Jason looked at Percy, his face was sharper, scarred in the way no face should ever be. Much less a teen’s. Much less his little brother. It spoke of days without food. The same way clothes hung loose on his frame but fit because of lean muscle, a muscle not built by gym but by fighting. Fighting to survive.

His hair still retained its unrulyness, Jason didn’t think it would ever follow orders. It was the dark hair that seemed to swallow the light and match Gotham’s darkest nights.

“Did you know a new constellation was discovered a few years ago?” Percy blurts out suddenly, tracing an invisible shape in the sky with his hand.

Jason's shake of the head is quick and he isn’t sure if Percy notices it, sea-green eyes still fixated on the clouds above. “It’s called the Huntress. Lieutenant of the Hunters of Artemis, running across the sky with her bow.” Percy seems almost guilty as he talks about the constellation. “I…One of my friends he-” 

Percy gets choked up, his hands moving as if trying to explain something, trying to justify something. Jason doesn’t respond. He simply moves a little closer and wraps his arm around his brother's shoulders. He holds him. 

Percy buries his face in Jason's shoulder and Jason breathes in his little brother's scent. Hot sandy days and ocean breeze, a mix he always smelt like ever since he was a kid. It seemed impossible, the unique scent that always clung to him. Jason had always attributed it to the candles. His mom used to buy them, he vaguely remembers. 

He hoped wherever he was these past five years he at least kept some of those memories. He hoped Percy kept more memories than the ones that made his body so scarred. He hoped for new memories. He hoped for no new scars.

He swore he would protect his brother. He’d never lose him again.

At some point the tension leaves both the brothers shoulders, since when were they tense?

At some point it started raining. Water pounding onto the glass above. 

At some point Jason’s jacket was soaked with tears.

At some point Dick came and joined, wrapping an arm around the two.

At some point they all realized it had been over five years since they last were together.

At some point the rain stopped and the sun rose.

The first two robins didn’t patrol that night.

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⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰ 

March 14, 2011

Wayne Manor Conservatory, Gotham

7 Months & 13 days since end of the Second Giantomachy

5:02 AM

Percy woke up in the arms of two legal brothers and thought of a time when it was brothers-in-arms.

After the first war, after the second, when nightmares got bad and the cabins curled up together in the amphitheatre pretending there weren’t gaps in the rows where cousins once sat. When they curled up together and whispered nonsense until you drifted off. They all knew it wasn’t really nonsense but a quiet message, I’m alive. You are too. We’re both here. We survived. Memories of a time when he needed to have someone on watch. When the next battle could spark any second.

He shakes the memories that took the place of his dreams last night out of his brain. 

“This is real, right?” Jason’s question startles Percy out of his thoughts. Thinking was never a good look on him anyways.

With a laugh Percy responds, “Yeah, you still have to deal with me for a bit longer.”

Jason shakes his head, removing his arm. Dick left at some point when Percy was lost in his memories and the haze of just waking up. At least he didn’t immediately wake up and attack, Percy thinks wryly. Even the littlest improvements count. He was safe here. Sure Gotham was the most dangerous city but that was mortal danger. There was a reason that Sally moved here for safety. The city was too human. The veil was thinner, due to crazy vigilantes and villains it was easier to believe in monsters. At least that was Annabeth’s theory.

Percy tried not to think of what Chiron said as he left. Tried not to think of how even now he was on a mission.

“Hey Jace?”

“Yea Perce?”

“Alfred said you moved out. D-do you think I could stay with you?” Gods, his voice didn't shake when he denied immortality. Why is it shaking now? What’s wrong with him?

Jason grins, “Thought you’d never ask. Have any stuff to grab?”

“Yup,” Percy pops the ‘p’. “Gimme like uhh fourty minutes?”

“That long?”

“Need to make a call too,”

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who you’re calling?”

“Suffer in curiosity.”

“Fine, I’ll be raiding the kitchen.”

“Don’t get caught.”

“Want anything?”

“Something that’ll wake me up but no caffeine. Preferably lots of sugar and blue,” Sure, caffeine would help him focus and concentrate on things. Annabeth showed him research articles where people with ADHD reported feeling more calm and focused after consuming caffeine. The Athena kids even ran their own experiment at camp when they discovered this research. The problem was, his ADHD kept him alive as a demigod. It’s his battle instincts, so if he were to consume some coffee, his reactions would be slightly slower. Annabeth had a fun time kicking his ass during the experiment since he drank some coffee and she didn’t. He would rather live with high energy than risk not being fast enough to react to a monster attack. Even living in Gotham where no monsters have attacked, there’s still the high crime rate. Although Percy doubts a mortal would be able to do much against him even if he were dying. Sure riptide might not work on them but-

Jason raises an eyebrow, “One, please don’t jump around my house like a feral dog once you get that much sugar. Two, how has that stupid fuckin’ york accent gotten worse over the years?”

“One, dogs are adorable-I have one, two, way to make me feel like a stereotype,” Percy complained, flopping back down on the floor.

“You have a dog?”

“Yeah my cousin is taking care of her right now.”

“Please never let Damian meet her.”

“Why?”

“He’s…definately something when animals are involved.”

“...Does Bruce allow pets now?”

“Yeah, Damian has quite a few”

“And I couldn’t have a few fish!”

“Percy. You tried stealing them from the aquarium by stuffing them in your pockets.”

“They were sad. Mistreated. Abused.” Percy sits up, sharp blue-green eyes staring at Jason. (And Jason doesn’t know why but for some reason deep deep down his instincts are screaming danger.)

“They were fish.”

“What makes them think they have the right to trap fish inside glass boxes and put them on display as if their entire life’s purpose is simply to exist for a scientist to study and a common man to marvel at! Our country’s slogan is life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, but if their treatment of those fish was any show, then they’d never heard of any of those before! What makes someone better than a fish, huh? The only distinguishing part of a man is the hand!” Percy gestures wildly with his hand to prove his point.

“How do you even remember that! It's been over seven years! I never should’ve read you that book.”

“Well you did.”

“I didn’t know it would entice you to start a fish revolution!”

“Are you not hearing me?! They were sad.”

“Percy I swear.”

“Jason.”

“Oh my- ok so just blue and sugary? Do you want a drink or like-donut?”

Percy contemplates for a moment, “No donuts. They remind me too much of being broke, monsters, and Clarisse.”

Jason stares at Percy for a second, “Do I want to know?”

“It’s a story that involves a hydra, warship manned by dead people, and an addicted horse.”

“...”

“...”

Percy stares right back at Jason, dead serious. 

“I don’t want to know.”

“Smart decision”

“So sugary and blue drink?”

“Yeah,” Percy nods once. “Wait.”

“Hm?”

Percy’s throat closed up, “Never mind.” A brief silence. “And no hot chocolate. Please.”

Hot chocolate in the forum. It was amazing, but nothing could beat Silena’s. Winter nights when camp let the snow in and the few demigods that stayed year round gathered in the Big House by the flames. Silena would make hot chocolate for everyone and somehow it was better than Alfred’s. She’d use the chocolate her dad sent up for the holidays. Shared it with everyone. She always knew to make his blue.

She’d curl up on the worn loveseat, light pink blanket wrapped around her. It always smelled like her perfume. He had once asked why she chose that scent and she said it complimented the smoke of the forges.

The smoke that clung to Beckendorf like a second skin.

Their mixing scent always clung to that blanket. After the first war the survivors would curl up in that old loveseat, squishing in to fill the gaps the ghosts left.

At some point that blanket stopped smelling like them. Percy isn’t sure exactly when it happened but when he realized it felt worse than a stab wound. (And he would know-he’s had quite a few of those)

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Silena didn’t pay any attention. She sat beside Clarisse and stared vacantly at the ping-pong net. Her eyes were red and puffy. A cup of hot chocolate sat untouched in front of her. Percy thinks it's the first time she has ever had hot chocolate without whipped cream. Oh. Becendorf was the one who always supplied the whipped cream. That’s why. If only- 

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

“Percy?” The voice is a soft question.

The response is a broken boy's nod.

“I’m okay.” The words sounded more like a question and neither brother was quite sure who was the one being reassured.

“Met you out front in fourty?”

“Ok.”

Neither boy made a move to leave.

“At least I don’t have a fuckin’ Jersey accent.” 

“At least I didn’t try and eat bubbles”

“Expired protein shake of a human”

“Mama’s boy,”

“That is not an insult. Damn well proud of it.”

“Still legally dead?”

“The fact you had to add still is so funny,”

“Shut up.”

“Never.”

“Clearly.”

“You wear leather jackets like they’re a fashion statement”

“It's comfy!”

“The last person who wore a leather jacket tried to kill me,”

“Do you not realize how concerning the words coming out of your mouth are?”

“She was my math teacher. Algebra. Jason, what kind of mentally sane person chooses to teach twelve-year-olds math for a living?”

“You…” Jason pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Book worm,” Percy smirks.

“Fish thief.” He shot back irritated. 

“They were sad Jason!”

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⊱✿⊰ Sally Jackson POV ⊱✿⊰ 

January 4, 2000

New York City, New York

10 years, 6 months, 29 days before the end of the Second Giantomachy

7:42 AM

Sally Jackson was not a woman to be trifled with. She was not stupid. She was a mother. And she was well aware of the horror known as the world.

Since she was a child she could see things others couldn’t. She kept quiet about it and it was chalked up as an active imagination. She wanted to be an author after all. Create worlds and share them with others.

Her parents died at five and her uncle couldn’t care less for her. They struggled financially as she was growing up. She dropped out of school to care for him after he was diagnosed with cancer. She never got to go back.

All around her monsters roamed the streets and yet she couldn’t tell anyone. She feared she was hallucinating. She feared she was going crazy and losing grasp on reality. That somehow she hallucinated a classmate's screams and the monster eating him in the third grade. 

Then came summer in Montauk and a man too perfect to be true. Nothing ever stayed good for Sally Jackson after all.

The man spoke of a world hidden by a mist and eyes that see too much. The man offered to build her a palace in the sea and cherish her until the day she died. He never mentioned how he would treat the child. Their child. Her child. An unborn being that would face monsters and bear the weight of a broken oath and great prophesy.

She already loved him more than anything. 

He was born and she understood the power in things. He was named for primarily a good, happy ending and secondary strength. She hoped he would have the luck she never did.

Snakes came into his crib at daycare.

A cyclops watched him play on the playground in the first grade.

One day they might no longer just watch.

The man who had no right to call her son son spoke of how a scent so human could make it harder for them to smell him.

So Sally Jackson was not stupid as the others in the building whispered. She was moving to Gotham and it was for a safety that couldn’t be provided elsewhere. 

Sally Jackson had not the resources to protect him no matter how much she wished she did.

Sally Jackson was smart and selfless and she was too kind for the cruel world that was reality. 

She took the hand of her six year old child and stepped into the taxi. She told the driver Gotham and paid him extra. She whispered legends from the civilization that started western civilization and ignored the moving trucks behind her.

She looked to the future in a city made of shadows. The most dangerous city in the US. If her life was going to mean anything she’d have to live it herself.

So she’d live it. And for all of its ups and downs her life would damn well mean something.

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⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰ 

March 14, 2011

Wayne Manor, Gotham

7 Months & 13 days since end of the Second Giantomachy

6:07 AM

Percy walked through the long twisting halls of Wayne manor and couldn’t help but think of how small they felt.

It wasn’t the physical space that was small—the manor was laughably huge, easily large enough to house a few hundred campers if they packed tight and didn’t mind sharing the 18th-century furniture. But the atmosphere was small. It was choked with a quiet, heavy air of perpetual expectation, like the building itself was holding its breath, waiting for the next tragedy or the next clue. It was an atmosphere built on secrets and restraint, and Percy realized why he felt claustrophobic: the sheer lack of chaos. He missed the screaming of harpies, the low roar of the ocean, the spontaneous arguments between Stoll brothers, the sound of a cyclops snoring loudly enough to shake the mess hall rafters.

He moved with a quiet, efficient gait, the kind that came from constantly needing to conserve energy and never wanting to announce his presence. Every muscle movement was economical. The high ceilings and marble floors were supposed to convey opulence and stability, but to Percy, the place felt like a meticulously organized tomb—too silent, too cold, too ready to reveal a secret passage or a hidden threat around every corner. This was the quiet before a monster attack, not the calm of a family home. He was used to the gods, who were at least predictably insane. The Wayne family was mortal, yet somehow they were all carrying the same scent of suppressed rage, surgical intelligence, and deep-seated paranoia. Maybe this is just how rich kids acted in Gotham, he thought, shrugging internally. After fighting Titans and Giants, a little over-the-top family drama seemed pretty tame. They were just... intense.

He was headed to the east wing, where the bedrooms of all the family members sat. He was pretty sure that tradition hadn’t been broken. The house was a labyrinth, and he was vaguely aware he was close to the library, evidenced by the slightly dustier smell of old paper mixing with the faint, comforting scent of Alfred's polish. It smelt like childhood memories and drifting off in a nook to Jason's voice.

He stopped, mid-step. His senses, honed over years to detect danger—monster or mortal—were alerting him to an unexpected presence. Not hostile, but certainly calculated and predatory. It was the familiar, unsettling feeling of being watched by someone who knew exactly where to aim a precise blow.

“You walk like a refugee attempting to sneak through hostile territory, Jackson,” a sharp, low voice cut through the quiet, vibrating slightly with a self-assured arrogance that instantly grated on Percy’s nerves. Percy had wrongfully assumed only Hera or Octavian could make his last name sound like an insult, Damian Wayne had proved him very wrong.

Percy turned slowly, finding Damian Wayne, all twelve years of him, standing by a dark mahogany display case, staring at him with an intense, surgical glare. Damian was dressed in clean pajamas, his posture rigid, like a miniature drill sergeant who also happened to be judging your clothing choices. He reminded Percy so much of Nico—the dark hair, the aggressive energy, the certainty that the world was beneath him—it almost made Percy smile. Almost. He felt a weird kinship with the kid, a shared understanding of having seen too much, too soon.

“Good morning to you too, Kid Kills,” Percy replied easily, leaning against the wall and crossing his ankles. The casual posture was intentional, an offering of non-threat. “Trying to evaluate my tactical retreat from the study last night?”

Damian bristled, his black eyebrows knitting together. He seemed offended by Percy’s very existence. “I am assessing your capabilities. Richard and Todd are clearly compromised by sentimentality. Father is operating under the delusion that you are merely a runaway suffering from profound trauma. I, however, observe the facts. Your movement is precise, but your form is wrong. It is clearly not disciplined teaching.”

“Instinct keeps you alive when the textbooks fail,” Percy shrugged, pushing away from the wall slightly. “Discipline is great for parades. I prefer living.”

Damian moved away from the display case, crossing the marble floor until he was just a few feet from Percy. The kid was all intensity, his focus unwavering. “You claimed to have been with family and that you left because you ‘had to.’ That implies coercion or necessity. Given your musculature—which is functional, yet carries a high degree of scar tissue—you have been extensively trained. Who taught you to fight?”

Percy ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair. He couldn't lie about the fighting. He had the scars to prove it, crisscrossing his arms and torso like faded maps of every mistake he’d ever made. “A few people. But mainly me. Trial and error. And mostly a lot of luck.”

“Luck is for the inept. I was trained from birth. I am proficient in over eighteen martial arts styles and multiple weapons, including the katana,” Damian stated, puffing out his chest slightly, a proud, murderous bird trying to establish dominance. “Your stance, even now, leaning so carelessly against the wall, is fluid. I have seen the way you hold yourself; it suggests a specific mastery of the sword, but adapted to an impossibly fast, highly reactive defense. It is like the Italian school of fencing, but….”

“I fight with a sword, yeah. It’s a pretty good one,” Percy admitted, pulling out Riptide from his jeans pocket, disguised as a simple ballpoint pen, and twirling it. “It does what I need it to.”

Damian narrowed his eyes at the gesture, clearly dismissing the pen as a theatrical prop. “A pen. Hilarious. You dodge too much. The objective is to subdue and neutralize the threat, not to tire them out with needless movement. Your energy consumption would be astronomical in a prolonged engagement.”

“When you’re fighting things that can bite your face off and digest you in two seconds, you learn to dodge,” Percy said, the air instantly cooling between them. The shift in his demeanor was immediate. The casual mention of being eaten wasn't a joke to him. It was a fact of life, one that happened every week or two during the quieter times. “My fights don’t usually get prolonged. I like to end things quick. I can’t afford to spend three hours wrestling a monster when I have homework due.”

Damian tilted his head, intrigued by the sudden change in Percy’s tone—the shift from relaxed teen to deadly serious veteran. He recognized the coldness in the sea-green eyes, the complete absence of doubt. “A duel. You, me, the manor training facilities. Once Alfred is occupied with his morning rounds, of course. I need to make sure you’re worthy of being my fathers son.”

Percy pushed himself off the wall. A duel with Damian? It would be interesting, and honestly, a spar was probably the only kind of bonding activity he knew. He hadn't sparred since the war ended, and he genuinely needed to gauge how much he'd slowed down. Plus, Damian was probably the most honest person in the house right now. He didn't pretend to be worried or caring; he just wanted to measure the threat.

“Sure, kid. I’m always down for a spar,” Percy said, giving him a lazy smile.

“Agreed. And the conditions of the loser?” Damian pressed, his eyes glittering with competitive zeal.

“The loser cleans the stables for a month,” Percy countered immediately. It was habit after all. Washing the dishes with lava? Easy. The stables? Brought back too many memories.

Damian looked bewildered. “The... stables? We only have two horses, and Alfred employs a full staff for their care. You are remarkably naive about the logistics of this estate.”

Percy chuckled, a genuine sound of amusement that felt good to release. “Oh. Right. No stables. Okay, the loser has to make the winner a mountain of blue cookies.”

Damian made a sound of pure disgust, recoiling slightly as if Percy had just suggested licking the floor. “Unacceptable. I do not bake. We will discuss the terms of defeat at a later juncture. For now, tell me about the skills you claim to possess. If your combat expertise is questionable, I may simply observe you for the duration of your stay. I seek proof of competency, not empty boasts.”

Percy rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Let’s talk about something real. What kind of pets do you have? Jason said you have a few.”

The abrupt, intentional shift in topic worked perfectly. Damian’s rigid posture eased slightly, a subtle softening around his eyes replacing the hardened warrior focus. “I possess a menagerie of superior animals. A Great Dane, Titus; a cow, Bat-Cow; and a recently acquired cat, Alfred the Cat. They are all highly trained and loyal. They possess an intelligence far beyond the average house pet.”

Percy’s jaw dropped slightly. “A cow?” he repeated, trying not to laugh out loud. It sounded exactly like something an aggressively serious little boy would adopt. “That’s awesome. Is she... blue?”

“The color of my pets is irrelevant to their function, Jackson. They are companions, not props.” Damian paused, then pointedly asked, “You mentioned having a dog. Given your lack of stable income or fixed residence, I assume it is a stray or perhaps a small, easily manageable breed. Perhaps a Chihuahua?”

“Nah, she’s huge. About the size of an 18-wheeler when she’s really excited,” Percy said, thinking of Mrs. O’Leary. The memory was warm and comforting, an anchor in the absurdity of the manor. “She’s a mastiff, maybe? Black fur, big teeth, and she is the best dog in the entire world. Her name’s Mrs. O’Leary.”

Damian’s composure cracked for the first time. His pupils dilated slightly, and he took a half-step back, a flicker of genuine alarm crossing his face. “Your ability to name creatures is abysmal at best Jackson.”

“Didn’t name her. Her old owner he…there was an accident. Left her to me because I was the only one she really liked. She’s a good girl, though. Loves ham and tennis balls.” Percy continued, “And speaking of good animals, I also have a uh horse. He’s huge, pure black, loves sugar cubes, donuts, and he’s an absolute drama queen.”

“Donuts,” Damian repeated flatly, crossing his arms and recovering his composure with visible effort, though a muscle twitched in his jaw. “You are testing me. If you cannot care for your pets then I shall take custody of them for you.”

“I can take perfect care of them, don’t worry. Now I’ve got to go pack so see ya, Kid Kills,” Percy called out cheerfully, stepping past the boy to his room before the tween could respond.

Once the door was safely closed Percy let out a breath. So that was one new sibling down.

He grabbed his duffle and threw his stuff in. Percy would eat his sword if Jason was actually an organized person now. It was Jason’s house. He didn’t need to be organized. He checked his watch, 6:21. He agreed to meet Jason out front at 6:40. 

Plenty of time to call home and request his emotional support dog. Talking about her with Damian reminded him how much he missed her. Mrs. O’Leary could, thankfully, shrink down to the size of a really, really large dog. Plus, in the spring after…the quest for Artemis Chiron had taught Percy how to control mist. He was no where as good as Hazel at it but he could do it.

Percy grabs his phone from the bedside table where he left it before. He still wasn’t used to carting a phone around with him everywhere.

He clicks on his top contact- “Wise Girl💙🩶”- and waits for barely a moment before she picks up.

“Hey Beth,”

“Hey,” Hearing her voice makes the tension in his shoulders leave. He hadn’t even noticed he was tense.

“How’s it going?” Her voice is soft and Percy can picture her at her desk in Cabin 6, working on some new project for the city of the gods.

“Nothings tried to kill me yet, that’s a first,” He jokes, laying against his bed.

“Don’t jinx it seaweed brain,”

“Not trying too. With my luck we both know it’s bound to happen eventually.”

“Didn’t Lou Ellen give you something to ward off monsters?”

“Hide my scent but yeah,”

“Maybe that’s it.”

“Hopefully, I mean she said it's just a prototype.”

“Better than nothing,”

“Yup.” They settle for a moment, listening to each other's breath. 

“How's Jason?”

“He’s great. Looks really punk now which is weird,” she laughs and Percy's heart flutters as he continues talking. “Got a leather jacket and everything. Five drachmas says he pulled up in a motorcycle.”

“Not taking that bet.”

“Dick is different. He seems…more like a brother. More connected. He ate dinner peacefully without a glance at B which was weird. The other two kids acted like this was normal. Although that could just be because of me being there.”

“B was quiet at dinner until he got in his interrogation mood. I may or may not have walked out after snapping at them,” He winces and prepares himself for her sigh. Yep there it is.

“Dinner is going to be hell of a lot more awkward now.” She notes.

“Don’t remind me. Jason moved out so I’m going to go stay with him now.”

“That’s good. If you need anything just let me know.”

“Yes ma’am,” Gods he loves that laugh. “So what are you doing right now?”

“Oh my gods, remember when I told you that my Cabin was going through and uncovering all the Justice League's identities? It’s actually really easy. We just have a few left and will probably wrap it up later today.”

“Didn’t you start like, two days ago? And aren’t there like a billion members?”

“Yes and yes. A little over eighty members. Allie is heading the project.”

“Isn't Allie the eight year old?”

“Nine and three quarters,” Annabeth corrects, “And honestly a lot of them were really easy. Superman's disguise is a pair of glasses and the loss of an accent! If you really want secret identities then don't overlap your day job with your night job! I mean Clark Kent regularly writes about Superman and they look the exact same! What is that about?” She huffs before continuing her rant, “Allie has an eidetic memory-”

“Don’t you too?”

“Yes, but I’m not really helping with this project much. Aphrodite sent in a request to add in baths by her garden and-” 

For a while Percy just sits back and listens to her ramble on. Jumping from subjects in the way only an ADHD person could. He wishes life could be like this forever.

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⊱✿⊰ Jason POV ⊱✿⊰ 

March 13, 2011

Wayne Manor Kitchen, Gotham

One Day since Percy’s return

6:08 AM

Jason pulled the almost neon-blue bottle out of the fridge. He held it up, inspecting the label. Blue Strawberry Lemonade. Alfred truly was magic.

Tim was in the kitchen when Jason walked in. He was drinking from the carafe. He already had a thermos full of coffee next to him and was making another.

“I thought Alfie was limiting your coffee intake?” Jason asked.

“He is.”

“Ok then.” Jason set the lemonade on the counter. He watched Tim for a second, noticing the focused, almost manic energy the teenager always seemed to possess. Tim had been awake all night, Jason was sure of it. “What are you really thinking, Tim? Give me the detective breakdown.”

Tim sighed, stirring his new thermos of black coffee. The spoon clinked against the ceramic rhythmically. “I’m thinking about the financials, mostly. There’s no trace of him. No paper trail, no Social Security use since the crash, no bank accounts. It’s a total ghosting. And the car crash? Perfectly staged, down to the dental records they used for the body—records that, incidentally, went missing shortly after. Someone covered their tracks thoroughly.”

“And what does the World’s Best Detective think happened?” Jason crossed his arms, leaning against the counter, his jaw tight.

Tim finally looked up, his expression clinical, detached. “Amnesia and a cult. The trauma from the crash was enough to induce acute disassociative amnesia, severing his link to his old life. Someone, likely a high-control group, found him near the crash site and used his trauma and existing need for belonging to recruit him. The 'family' he mentioned at dinner? That’s his new indoctrinated group. They’ve trained him, clearly for combat—look at the muscle tone, the scars that aren't old kid scars, they're fresh and patterned. He’s suffering from significant malnutrition, but it’s the kind of maintenance required for high-level athletic output. He's been living on rations. The 'I can’t tell you why' is the core indoctrination. That secrecy is what keeps them safe.”

Jason felt a familiar heat rising in his chest, a deep, irrational rage. The sheer reduction of Percy's pain to a case file theory—a cult—was insulting. Tim was trying to put Percy in a box, a neat file with a predictable motive and a simple solution. He saw the same arrogance and distance he saw in Bruce, the clinical need to categorize and solve what should be felt.

“That’s the most reductive, cold-hearted garbage I’ve ever heard, Tim,” Jason snarled, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “You're seeing him as a puzzle piece, not a kid who died and came back scarred. You think he just joined a goddamn cult? You think his 'family' is some brainwashing group of hippies? You think I don’t know what trauma-based systems look like? I see a soldier, Tim. I see someone who’s had to fight every day just to breathe. You don’t get that look from reading pamphlets and group hugs. You get that look from having a knife put in your hand and told to kill or be killed.”

Jason felt his fists clench, his knuckles turning white as he leaned forward, pressing the heel of his hand against the counter until the wood groaned faintly. For a terrifying second, the rage was so sharp he could almost taste the pit water, metallic and rotten. The fluorescent kitchen light seemed to dim around him, and he saw the flicker in Tim’s eyes—the recognition of something primal and dangerous. Jason’s eyes, usually a dark, vibrant blue, briefly flashed an aggressive, startling green.

Tim took a quick, sharp step back, hitting the stainless steel fridge with a soft thud. His own eyes widened imperceptibly, the only visible sign of the shock that hit him. He pressed his back against the cold metal, regaining control instantly. He refused to look away, but the carafe in his hand trembled.

“It is the only viable theory that accounts for all the data points, Jason,” Tim said, his voice forced level, though it was strained. He was terrified, but he was still arguing the case. “We have to start with the probable, not the metaphysical. A secret organization that requires a complete identity cleanse and trains children is a cult or paramilitary group. What else could explain a six-year hole in the paper trail and his reaction to being questioned by Bruce?”

Jason took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the green flicker back down, forcing the acid taste of bile and rage away. He knew he looked feral. Stop it. You’re scaring him. You’re scaring your brother. The shame was immediate and crushing.

“I’m sorry,” Jason muttered, his eyes fixed on the blue lemonade bottle instead of Tim’s face. The guilt hit him hard. He knew that look on Tim’s face—that split-second trigger reaction to danger. Tim had been through the wringer, too. He didn’t deserve Jason’s Pit rage. “I… look, just work the facts. Leave the theories out of it for now. We need to focus on his safety, not on classifying his trauma. He’s here. That’s step one.”

“Yeah,” Tim replied, the moment passing, the mask settling back on his face, though he still looked guarded. He carefully picked up his two thermoses. He didn't avoid eye contact this time, but his gaze was heavy. “Just… be careful. He’s a wild card. He needs help, but he’s clearly dangerous.”

Tim turned and left the kitchen, the door swinging shut quietly behind him.

Jason stood alone in the silence, the cold plastic of the blue lemonade stinging his hand. A cult. No. This was something else. Tim was smart, but he was wrong. Jason didn’t know what Percy had gone through, but he knew the smell of it: not brainwashing, but a raw, elemental survival. Something older. Something that smelled like ozone and salt and blood, and a desperate power.

He gripped the bottle and walked toward the front yard. 

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⊱✿⊰ Annabeth POV ⊱✿⊰ 

March 14, 2011

Cabin 6, Camp Half-Blood

7 Months & 13 days since end of the Second Giantomachy

7:32 AM

“Fuck.”

Bruce Wayne, who openly admits to funding the Justice League.

Every time he adopts a new kid, less than a year later, there’s a new Batman sidekick on the street. Except for when he adopted Percy that is.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. Shortly after Bruce Wayne’s return to the city Batman appears.

Jason Todd dies. There is a new Robin on the streets and no one knows what happened to the old one. Tim Drake is adopted.

Damian Wayne is revealed and now there is a Red Robin and a new Robin.

“Fuck.” She repeats, a little more venomously than before.

What was she supposed to tell Percy? They had just talked not even an hour ago.

She couldn’t just not tell him. That was never an option she even thought about.

How do you say that?  ‘Oh hey you know that family you just returned to that you already struggle to trust enough as it is? Yeah they’ve been hiding this major secret from you your entire life’

She cussed a couple more times, massaging her forehead as she paced.

Why was this her life?

Maybe she just hacks into their mainframe and forces his family to tell him. No, that'd be even worse. Then they’re looking into her and-

She cuts the thought process off. It was useless to her anyways.

It would be worse if she were to tell him rather than them. Worst case scenario is that he figures it out himself.

Looks like she might need to visit Gotham a little sooner than she thought.

Chapter Text

⊱✿⊰ Sally POV ⊱✿⊰ 

January 4, 2000

New York City, New York

7:42 AM

Sally Jackson was not a woman to be trifled with. She was not stupid. She was a mother. And she was terrifyingly well aware of the horror known as the world.

Since she was a child she could see things others couldn’t. She saw the true shapes lurking at the edges of the Mist, keeping quiet about it because sanity was a necessary shield. She had wanted to be an author, to create worlds and share them, but reality had given her a tragic fantasy she couldn’t escape.

Her parents died at five, swallowed by the sea—a bitter irony she hadn't understood until much later. Her uncle couldn’t care less for her. They struggled financially, and she eventually dropped out of school to care for him after he was diagnosed with cancer. She never got to go back. Life had stripped her of every choice she made for herself.

All around her, monsters—chthonic, hungry, ancient—roamed the streets, yet she couldn’t tell anyone. She feared hallucinating the classmates’ screams, the shadow of a beast eating him in the third grade, fearing she was losing grasp on reality.

Then came the summer in Montauk and a man too perfect, too kind, too powerful to be true. Nothing ever stayed good for Sally Jackson, after all.

The man, Poseidon, spoke of a world hidden by a veil of Mist and of eyes that saw too much. He offered to build her a palace in the sea and cherish her until the day she died. But their love was a temporary mercy, not a stable future. He never mentioned how he would treat the child—their child, an unborn being who would face monsters and bear the weight of a broken oath and a great prophecy.

She already loved him more than anything.

He was born, and she understood the terrible, beautiful power in things. He was named for the hope of a good, happy ending. She hoped he would have the luck she never did.

But the world always intervened. Snakes came into his crib at daycare. A cyclops watched him play on the playground in the first grade. One day they might no longer just watch.

The man who had no right to call her son son spoke of how a scent so human could make it harder for them to smell him.

Gabe was a necessary horror. She glanced down at her left hand, the cheap, ugly brass wedding band heavy on her finger, the final seal on her self-immolation. She married Gabe for one reason only: his repulsive, purely mortal scent. He reeked of stale beer, unwashed clothes, cheap cigar smoke, and pure, unfiltered resentment. He was a magnet for bad luck, a man so utterly mundane in his uselessness that his odor would act like a mortal cloaking device against the godly world. His stench was a wall of repulsive, uninspired garbage that masked the potent, dangerous power of her son. Every day with Gabe was a day Percy was safer. It was a vile calculus, but Sally was willing to pay her soul for her son’s survival.

So Sally Jackson was not stupid as the others in the building whispered about her moving. She was moving to Gotham because it was the only place that could provide a different kind of safety: the safety of pervasive, overwhelming mortal filth. The danger of Gotham was a known quantity—it was a human danger, which she could sometimes predict. The danger from the monsters was absolute.

She took the hand of her seven-year-old child and stepped into the taxi. She told the driver Gotham and paid him double. She whispered legends from the civilization that started western civilization and ignored the moving trucks behind her.

She looked to the future, accepting a life of misery in a city made of shadows. Gotham was the most dangerous city in the US. If her life was going to mean anything, she'd have to live it as a sacrifice.

The radio crackled with a low-priority news bulletin—a feature on the sudden, widely rumored departure of the Wayne ward, Dick Grayson. Seventeen years old, he had left the mansion, severing ties with the billionaire that took him in. Another broken partnership, she thought, the human world mirroring the divine. A replacement would come, a younger boy to fill the void. Children were always the price, the casualties, or the desperate pawns of giants.

She kissed the top of Percy's damp hair, inhaling his sweet, sea-salt scent one last time before it was buried under Gabe’s stench. She’d live it. And for all of its ups and downs, her life would damn well mean something.

⊱✿⊰ Dick POV ⊱✿⊰ 

January 4, 2000 

Gotham City, Outside Wayne Manor 

17 years old 

8:15 AM

The engine noise was a roaring, messy, beautiful truth—the only thing that hadn't lied to him in the last week.

Dick hit the gas, the tires of his beat-up sedan spitting a defiant spray of gravel onto the polished cobblestones of Wayne Manor’s winding drive. He didn't look back. There was nothing to see but a wall of cold, grey stone, a facade of permanence that had cracked irreversibly, designed to keep the world out but failing catastrophically to keep him in.

He was seventeen. He was a veteran. He was supposed to be the one thing that never failed the mission. He had worn the primary colors of hope and fought the shadows of Gotham since he was eight, believing with every fiber of his being that partnership meant trust.

But partnership, he had learned, was a myth. It was control. It was manipulation veiled as protection.

The source of the conflict was now a painful, echoing silence in his head: the surveillance, the protocols, the constant, debilitating fear Bruce couldn’t hide, forcing Dick into a role that was shrinking him. The final break had been over a simple, deadly risk that Bruce deemed too "reckless."

“You’re reckless, Dick. You’re too emotional. You put the mission at risk.”

The words, delivered in Bruce’s low, unforgiving rumble, were a dismissal, a final sentence. Reckless? He’d fought beside this man for nearly a decade, his agility and light the only thing keeping the crushing darkness at bay. He had earned his courage, and he had earned the right to his damn judgment. He wasn't a child anymore, and he wouldn't be treated like a disposable weapon.

The anger was cold and sharp, an icicle shoved straight through his heart. It wasn't about the mask; it was about the man behind the mask, the one who couldn't let go of the past and couldn't trust the future he'd helped build. Bruce had never seen him as a son, or even an equal. He was a tool—Robin, the ward, the sidekick—and when the tool started demanding autonomy, it had to be replaced.

He was leaving behind the only security he had ever known, the only family left from the wreckage of his first life. He was trading the blazing certainty of Robin for the uncertain, heavy shadow of Nightwing. He had claimed the name, a symbol of a hero who flies on his own in the dark, but it felt less like liberation and more like an exile that had been forced upon him.

He knew what Bruce would do, because Bruce couldn't stand a vacuum. The hole he left in the Cave—the silence where their banter used to be—would be intolerable to the Batman. It would be a weakness, an open flank he’d feel compelled to reinforce. Bruce would already be scouring the streets, seeking someone damaged enough, lonely enough, desperate enough to accept the uniform.

The thought didn't make him jealous; it made him profoundly, terribly sad. Bruce would find a replacement, a new, pliable soldier to teach the painful doctrine of the mission. Someone who wouldn’t argue, wouldn’t demand the truth, and who would be molded to fit the mold Dick had finally outgrown.

Jason. He didn't know the name yet, but the image of the next boy, the boy being pulled into the darkness he had just escaped, settled on him like a shroud. That boy would get a home, a meal, and a future—a bargain no child on the streets could refuse. But he would also inherit a legacy of heartbreak and the crushing expectation of a man whose love was conditional on discipline.

Dick slammed his hand on the steering wheel, wincing. He merged onto the interstate, pointing the nose of the car south toward the anonymity of Blüdhaven. He was alone now. Truly, finally alone. And that terrible, agonizing independence was the only victory he had left.

⊱✿⊰ Jason POV ⊱✿⊰ 

January 10, 2000 

Wayne Manor, Gotham City 

12 years old 

2:00 PM

The sheets were a trap. They were too soft, too clean, smelling like lavender and expensive fabric softener—a sickly sweet smell compared to the raw, honest stink of diesel, damp concrete, and desperation from the alley where he’d been sleeping just a week ago.

Jason, all twelve years of him and two lifetimes of cynicism, sat bolt upright in the absurd, enormous bed, staring at the empty, patterned wallpaper. He was being punked. This had to be an elaborate, complicated setup by one of the psychos who ran the streets, or maybe it was just a really nice shelter before they sold him for parts. He kept waiting for the catch, the inevitable moment when the velvet gloves came off and the iron fist delivered the debt.

The man, Bruce Wayne, was a caricature of privilege—too rich, too clean, too silent. He had offered Jason food, a bath, and a room. No strings, he said, but his eyes were always watching, calculating.

Bull. There were always strings. He’d stolen the Batmobile’s tires in a moment of reckless hunger, and the rich guy didn’t beat him or call the cops; he brought him home. That wasn't kindness; that was research. Bruce was studying him, measuring him against some invisible standard.

Jason knew he was a replacement. He knew he was a ghost wearing someone else’s skin.

The old British guy—Alfred—who smelled faintly of old books and weary regret, was painfully polite. But whenever he looked at Jason, his eyes didn't see a street kid who was finally safe; they looked past him, seeing a different boy in a different, brighter uniform. Master Dick, the first Robin.

Jason heard the faint, professional whispers floating around the kitchens—staff he was barely allowed to see: “Master Dick is gone.” “Terrible shame, that fight, the things they said.” “He’ll be back when he calms down, he always does.”

But Dick Grayson wasn't coming back. The air was too heavy, the Manor too quiet. Bruce Wayne had a hole in his life, a gaping, operational void, and Jason Todd was nothing more than a convenient shape to fill it. A hand-me-down kid, a used part. The last boy had been an acrobat, shiny, well-mannered, a promise of brightness. Jason was rough, cynical, too prone to using his fists, and smelling faintly of the streets he’d barely escaped. He was the cheaper version, the knock-off toy, and he felt the difference like a physical weight.

He walked over to the closet, where his own dirty, threadbare clothes had been vanished, replaced by a stack of new, plain shirts and jeans. They were expensive, brand-name, but Jason still felt the need to check the pockets—an old habit, checking for a forgotten crumb or a stray dollar.

The only thing he found was a folded piece of newsprint, thin and brittle.

It was an article cut from the Gotham Gazette, dated six days ago, about a low-income family moving into the Narrows—the part of the city he knew was pure, concentrated filth. The focus was on the mother, a pretty woman with kind, tired eyes, and her young son, who couldn't be more than seven. The story was boilerplate, something about a fresh start.

Jason frowned, crushing the paper in his hand. What the hell did that mean? Why would anyone willingly move their kid to Gotham? That was like diving into a vat of acid for a bubble bath. People ran from Gotham.

He didn't understand the wealthy man who had rescued him, or the strange woman running to the darkness. He only understood one thing: In Gotham, everyone was making a terrible, self-defeating trade. He had traded his freedom for food and the chance to be a replacement. That woman, Sally Jackson, was trading a decent, quiet life for the repulsive "safety" of chaos and a human shield (she’d just married Ugliano, he noted from the marriage announcement tucked under the clipping). And the first boy wonder, Dick, he had traded everything—money, security, love—for nothing but the bitter taste of independence.

It’s all just a slow-motion disaster, Jason thought, kicking his feet against the too-soft mattress. And I’m just the new kid waiting for the next scene to start.

⊱✿⊰ Bruce POV ⊱✿⊰ 

January 15, 2000 

The Batcave, Gotham City 

4:15 AM

The silence in the Batcave was worse than any alarm. It used to be filled with the sound of a rubber ball bouncing, or a low whistle, or the cheerful, arrogant crackle of Dick’s voice detailing the flaws in tonight’s strategy. Now, the only sounds were the slow, steady drip of the water table and the high-pitched whine of the supercomputer cooling itself down.

The primary colors were gone, replaced by static. Bruce walked past the empty display case where the Robin uniform should have been. Dick hadn’t left the suit; he’d taken it. A final, physical act of severance. Bruce told himself Dick was seventeen, he was ready for Blüdhaven, he needed autonomy. But the truth, which settled cold and heavy beneath the cowl, was that he had driven his son away. He knew how to fight the Joker, but he couldn't negotiate the simple, honest need for trust with his first boy.

He had spent exactly eleven days in a state of operational despair before he intervened. He found Jason Todd not because he needed a soldier, but because he saw a ghost of himself—orphaned, angry, and coiled for a fight—and Bruce knew, with gut-wrenching certainty, that he had to save him.

Jason was the antithesis of Dick. Dick was grace and light; Jason was a piece of broken glass, all sharp edges, instinct, and raw, explosive rage. Bruce didn't see a project or a tool; he saw a son who needed his structure, his discipline, his singular, broken kind of protection.

“You’re anticipating the punch, Jason,” Bruce rasped, his voice modulator off. He tried for the calm authority of a teacher, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears. They were on the second level of the training mat. Jason was attempting a disarm against a weighted mannequin, and he was using too much force, too much emotion.

“Yeah? Anticipating it means I don’t get hit,” Jason shot back, tearing the mock weapon out of the dummy’s hand with unnecessary violence. His breathing was ragged, fueled by anger, not technique.

I don't know how to do this. Bruce felt the cold dread of failure. He was trying to parent a trauma victim using martial arts drills and mission protocols. He was pouring every ounce of his desperate, silent paternal love into discipline, because structure and control were the only kinds of safety he knew how to build.

He looked at Jason—a twelve-year-old kid with eyes that were too old and too guarded. Bruce wasn't trying to replace Dick; he was trying to give this boy the foundation that Dick had rejected. He wanted to give him a life of meaning, but the only meaning he had ever found was within the cowl.

“Disarm should be efficient. Fluid. You need to use the opponent's momentum,” Bruce demonstrated the move, the practiced ease of an Olympic athlete, but the motion felt hollow, like a lecture given to the wrong audience.

Jason just shrugged, rubbing his wrist. “You want me to dance. I want to win.”

Bruce stepped back, feeling the distance widen into an impassable gulf. He had offered Jason a library card, but the boy wanted to fight the injustice in the streets he knew. He offered compassion, and Jason responded with suspicion. He offered a home, and Jason kept looking for the nearest fire escape.

He knew his bargain felt transactional, even though the feelings were not. He desperately wanted to be a good father, but he only knew how to be Batman. He knew he was forcing Jason into the uniform too soon, forcing him into a war zone, but he felt utterly incapable of giving him the normal, warm, unarmed childhood he was supposed to provide.

Later, at the Cave computer, Bruce read the newspaper clipping Alfred had preserved—the one about Sally Jackson and her son moving to the Narrows. 

Bruce understood that grotesque parental calculus perfectly. He was doing the same thing. He had traded Jason's civilian childhood for the security of the Bat-Family, forcing him to live under the cloak of violence he himself wore.

He looked at the empty suit stand again. He failed Dick by trying to control him. He was failing Jason by trying to protect him using the only flawed, broken method he possessed. He didn’t know how to stop the crime outside, but he felt utterly helpless against the self-destructive cycle of failure inside his own walls.

He was a phenomenal fighter, a detective without peer, but in the quiet hours before dawn, he was just a man sitting alone in a cave, terrified that he had picked up a broken boy and was preparing to break him even further in his futile, tragic attempt to save him.

⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰ 

January 4, 2000 

Gotham City, New York 

3:00 PM

The air in Gotham didn't taste like the sea, or rain, or clean salt. It tasted like exhaust fumes, old brick dust, and something wet and forgotten rotting in an alley. Percy gripped his mom’s hand so tightly his knuckles turned white, but his mother didn't tell him to let go.

The taxi smelled like stale mints and desperation. When they pulled up to the curb, the buildings felt like giants that leaned over them, blocking out the afternoon sun. Even the sky looked grimy here, a dull, bruised purple instead of the bright blue Percy remembered from Montauk.

His mom said Gotham was the "safest place," because it was so full of shadows, it was the best place to hide. Percy didn’t understand that. Hiding in the brightest, sunniest place always seemed like the smarter thing to do. If monsters liked shadows, why move to the capital city of shadows?

"We're here, sweetheart," his mom said, her voice sounding thin, like she was talking through a windowpane. She pulled his small backpack off the seat and paid the driver. She didn't look happy. Her eyes, which were usually the color of the sea on a good day, were flat and gray.

"Is the monster-smell gone, Mom?" Percy whispered, looking around at the busy street. He knew he smelled good, like sweet saltwater taffy, and the man who was his father (but whom he never got to mention) had said good smells attracted the wrong kind of attention.

"The bad smell is hidden now, Percy," she said, but her answer didn't feel right. She smiled, but it was a paper smile that crinkled at the edges.

They walked up a flight of dirty stone stairs to an apartment door with peeling paint. The name Ugliano was etched beneath the doorbell, and the minute they stood in front of the door, a new smell hit Percy. It was worse than the car exhaust and the damp Gotham alley. It was a thick, sour fog, like old meat and burning plastic and something sticky that had been spilled a long time ago.

The door flew open before his mom could even knock.

Standing there was a large man with a permanent five o’clock shadow and a stained undershirt. He looked like a rotten potato that had grown arms and legs. He had a brass ring on one finger that matched the cheap, ugly band on his mother’s hand. Percy knew she hated wearing it.

“Well, look who finally showed up,” the man grunted. His voice was like gravel rolling around in a tin can. He didn't look at Percy. He just looked past him, then focused on Percy’s mom, his expression a mixture of annoyance and possessiveness.

"Hello, Gabe," Sally said, her voice completely changed—it was too bright, too polite, like a TV commercial. She stepped forward, letting go of Percy’s hand. Percy felt a sudden, sharp coldness where her warmth used to be.

The man, Gabe, finally glanced down at Percy, his eyes flicking over him like he was an inconvenience. "Don't track any dirt in, kid. We got rules."

He didn't offer a hug or a handshake. He just turned, leaving the door open to reveal a living room filled with empty pizza boxes and the flickering blue light of a football game on a huge, dusty television.

Percy immediately understood. This man was the reason his mom wasn’t smiling. This man was the bad smell that was supposed to keep the monsters away. The man who made his nose burn and his stomach clench.

He looked up at his mother, searching for a secret signal, a wink, a message that said this is just a joke, we’re leaving soon. But she only gave him that paper smile again, took a deep breath of the foul air, and gently guided him inside.

This is the trade, Percy thought, seven years old and already understanding the bitter logic of survival. His mother traded her happiness, and his clean air, for his life. The smell of this man was going to be the smell of their home. And for the first time, Percy felt truly, terrifyingly alone in a city that was too big and too dark to hide anything at all.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

August 12, 2001 

Gotham City, The Narrows 

7:15 PM

Percy Jackson, eight years old, was a weird kid who saw things.

He saw impossible things: figures in the shadows that moved too fast, eyes that were too large and too yellow, and sometimes, a sudden, shimmering outline that looked like a fat, hungry snake—only for it to vanish the moment he blinked. His vision was clear, yet the world constantly blurred at the edges.

He knew he shouldn’t mention these things. When he was younger, he told teachers about the lady with the goat legs at school, and they moved his desk. He told his kindergarten class about the man with a dog’s head, and his mother had to pull him out of daycare.

His mother, Sally Jackson, was the only thing that made sense in his confusing, blurry world. She smelled like chocolate chip cookies and the sea air, even here in Gotham, where the air tasted like pennies and old garbage. She never told him he was lying about the things he saw. She would just hold his hand tighter and whisper, “You have special eyes, Percy. They see the truth. But the world doesn’t like the truth. We have to keep our secret safe.”

Percy knew the secret wasn't just about his sight. It was about the man his mother had married.

Gabe Ugliano smelled like a dumpster fire after a rainstorm. He was a huge, lumpy man who sat in a permanently stained recliner, staring at sports on a crackling television set. His existence was an agonizing, dull constant. Every moment in the apartment was soaked in Gabe’s noise, his anger, and his overpowering, suffocating stench.

Percy loved his mother, which meant he loved the life she had chosen. He didn't understand why they had to live with Gabe, why they had moved to the darkest, busiest city in America, but his mother said Gabe was their "protection," a human wall they needed to keep the bad things out.

Percy hated their protection.

The worst part of living with Gabe was the silence, because the silence was a choice, a daily contract signed in terror.

Gabe didn't just hurt Percy physically—a harsh shove into a wall, a vicious pinch that left bruises under his shirt—he targeted the deepest, most vulnerable part of Percy: his mind.

After a hard shove one night, when Gabe was angry about spilled beer, he pinned Percy against the wall. His face, mottled and veined, was inches from Percy’s.

“You ever tell your mommy I did that, you hear me?” Gabe snarled, his breath hot and vile. “You ever tell her about the hits, and I swear, I’ll tell her I saw you talking to the ghosts again. I’ll tell her I heard you screaming at the walls. I’ll call the police and I’ll tell them what a complete schizophrenic you are, and they’ll take you away. And your mommy will be all alone.”

The threat wasn't just about pain; it was about the loss of his mind and the loss of his mother.

“She’s fragile, you know. She can’t handle having a crazy kid,” Gabe whispered, the lie sinking in like venom. “She’ll give up on you. You keep my secrets, and I keep your secret safe from the doctors. Got it?”

Percy nodded rapidly, tears burning his eyes. He promised he would never tell.

From that day on, Percy lived under a suffocating layer of fear: the fear that the impossible things he saw were not real, the fear that he was truly losing his mind, and the absolute certainty that if he broke the silence, his mother would lose him forever to the dreaded institutions of Gotham. He was eight, and his silence was his mother’s fragile happiness.

What Percy didn't know was that Sally was bound by the exact same lie. Gabe told Sally that if she ever tried to leave, he would report Percy's "hallucinations" to Child Protective Services, use the mountain of paperwork from Percy's old schools as evidence, and have him institutionalized in a place like Arkham Asylum, where Sally would never see him again. Sally stayed, believing her endurance was the only thing standing between her son and a padded cell.

They were two heroes, trapped in the same room, each one choosing to suffer silently to save the other from a life sentence in the darkest shadows of the city.

One stormy Thursday night, Sally was working her double shift, leaving Percy alone with Gabe—a situation that always made his skin crawl. Gabe was passed out in the recliner, the television a constant, irritating blue glow.

Percy went to his window, restless, feeling that familiar nervous energy. Outside, the rain was coming down hard.

Then he saw it.

It was impossibly huge, a shambling, nine-foot-tall figure in the alley below, moving with a blind, frustrated fury. It looked like a man sculpted badly out of dirty playdough. And in the center of its forehead, where two eyes should have been, was a single, massive, angry eye that glowed faintly yellow.

A monster. A Cyclops. Percy didn't know the name, but he knew the horror.

It was sniffing the air, its movements jerky and confused. It ran its enormous hand along the brick wall, right beneath their window, its shadow stretching halfway up the fire escape.

Percy stumbled back, a silent, choked gasp escaping his throat. He covered his mouth, trembling, his mind screaming: It's real! It's real!

The sound of his panic woke Gabe, who sat up with a grumbling snort. “What is it, you idiot kid? Stop messing with the furniture!”

Percy pointed a shaking finger at the window. “A man! A huge man! He… he has only one eye, Gabe! He’s looking for something!”

Gabe slowly hauled himself out of the recliner, staggering to the window. He squinted into the dark, rain-slicked alley. He saw nothing but overflowing trash bins and the shimmering puddle reflecting the weak streetlamp.

He turned back to Percy, his face contorted in a sneer of drunken triumph. This was his favorite game.

“There’s nothing there, you little freak,” Gabe slurred, leaning close so Percy could smell his sour breath. “Nothing. You’re seeing things again, aren’t you? I saw that look in your eyes. Paranoia. Schizophrenia.”

Gabe's eyes were cold and sharp, terrifyingly sober in their malice. “You know where people sends the crazies, don’t you? You keep talking about your giants, and I’ll take you down to the Gotham PD, right now. I’ll tell them about your breakdowns in the classroom, the screaming, the nightmares. And they’ll haul you off to Arkham.”

Percy felt his reality fracture. The one eyed man had been undeniable, solid, and terrifying. But Gabe’s denial was absolute, and his threat was tangible: concrete walls, straitjackets, needles, and a fate worse than any monster attack. He would lose his mind, and he would lose his mother.

That night, Gabe decided Percy needed to "cool off" and locked him out on the tiny, rusting fire escape balcony.

The metal was freezing and wet. Percy huddled against the railing, forced to stare down into the alley where the one-eyed man had stood. Out here, exposed to the swirling air of Gotham, he felt utterly vulnerable. He was sure the monster could see him now, but the greater fear was Gabe, watching him from the dark living room, ready to make a call that would destroy his life forever. He shivered until his teeth chattered, wishing he could stop seeing the truth, wishing he could be normal.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

The final breaking point arrived on a muggy August evening. The air was thick with tension, not just rain.

Gabe was raging. He had lost big on the day's horse races and the landlady had called, threatening eviction. Sally walked in at 7:00 PM, tired but composed, only to step into a furious, drunken storm.

“Where is it? Where’s the money, you worthless bitch!” Gabe roared.

“I told you, Gabe, I gave you my paycheck on Tuesday!” Sally stood near the kitchen, her back rigid. “We need food, not more betting money!”

“We need respect! We need collateral!” Gabe screamed, his eyes landing on Percy, who was frozen in the hallway. “And we need to get rid of this little freak who’s going to get us evicted when I finally call the cops about his screaming fits!”

He was using the threat. The one that was supposed to keep Sally silent.

“You won’t do that, Gabe,” Sally said, her voice dropping, tight with pure, maternal rage. “You won’t use my son.”

“Oh, I will! I’ll call them tonight! I’ll tell them about the one-eyed men that don't exist! I’ll tell them he’s a danger to himself! And they’ll send him straight to Arkham, and you’ll never see him again!” Gabe grabbed for the small, velvet box on the mantle—the only small pieces of jewelry Sally still owned, remnants of her mother.

Sally Jackson, driven past her breaking point by the terror of her child being deemed insane, fought back. She swung her heavy work purse, hitting Gabe hard in the jaw.

Gabe staggered back, enraged beyond reason. He stumbled toward the kitchen counter, knocking over a heavy, half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey. He snatched the bottle up, his movements clumsy but fueled by alcohol.

Percy didn't scream. He watched from the shadows of the hall as Gabe lunged, swinging the glass bottle in a wide, vicious arc.

The sound was not a scream or a roar. It was a deep, wet thud.

Sally Jackson collapsed silently, crumpling against the kitchen counter. Her beautiful brown hair fanned across the sticky linoleum. A dark, impossibly red stain blossomed instantly on the side of her head.

Gabe stood over her, the bottle held loosely, his face draining of color, sobriety hitting him like a physical blow. “No, no, no, dammit, Sally! Get up! You made me do this!”

He looked up, eyes wide and panicked, and they landed on Percy.

“Percy!” Gabe barked, his voice laced with absolute terror. “You didn’t see anything! Say you didn’t! Say it was one of your hallucinations!”

That single word, hallucinations, finally broke the eight-year-old boy. The choice was clear: Stay here and face the murderous man, or run and be deemed insane.

Percy chose the terror of the outside world.

He didn't grab his backpack or his book. He threw himself against the glass window of his small room.

The glass shattered with a terrifying crash, sounding like the entire world breaking. He scrambled through the jagged opening, catching his arm on a shard of glass, but barely feeling the pain through the sheer force of adrenaline.

He landed hard on the fire escape landing. Behind him, Gabe was screaming like an animal. “Get back here! You didn’t see me! You crazy little freak! I’ll tell them you did it!”

Percy scrambled down the rust-eaten rungs of the fire escape, dropping the last five feet to the alley floor. He picked himself up and ran blindly into the night.

He didn't know where he was going. He was just running from the smell of murder and the terrifying, real possibility that he was truly mad. He ran until his lungs burned and his legs failed, collapsing into the doorway of a boarded-up storefront. He curled into a tight, shaking ball.

He was alone. He was orphaned. He had just witnessed the murder of the only person who ever believed in him, and the killer said it was all in his head.

Percy Jackson, son of a sea god he didn't know, was just a terrified, eight-year-old boy, lost in the shadows of Gotham, desperately praying that the monster he had just run from was the only real one.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

⊱✿⊰ Sally POV ⊱✿⊰ 

August 12, 2001 

Gotham City, The Narrows 

7:20 PM

The air was thick and hot, smelling of stale beer, the lingering threat of rain, and Gabe’s furious, panicked sweat. Sally Jackson didn't feel the heat, though. All she felt was a pure, cold wave of rage, the kind that only a mother protecting her child could summon.

Gabe had just threatened her son. Not just the physical threat, but the one that targeted the most painful secret of her life: her son. The world he saw and the truth behind it.

“I’ll call them tonight! I’ll tell them about the one-eyed man! I’ll tell them he’s a danger to himself! And they’ll send him straight to Arkham, and you’ll never see him again!” Gabe’s face was a mottled mask of alcohol and terror as he reached for the cheap velvet box on the mantel.

Not my son. Not his mind. Not that prison.

All the pain of the last year and a half—the stench, the silence, the small compromises that became giant sacrifices—boiled down to this moment. She had traded her life, her happiness, and her body for a scent shield, enduring the physical presence of a monster to protect her child from the mythological world. But this was worse. This was the mortal world threatening to consume his soul, threatening to declare his truth a lie.

She didn't hesitate. She swung the heavy work purse, the motion sharp and practiced. The leather bag connected with Gabe’s jaw with a satisfying crack, shocking him into silence.

He stumbled back, his eyes wide with surprise and escalating fury. Sally moved to block the hallway door where Percy was hiding. She wouldn't let him get to her son. She wouldn’t let him make that call.

Gabe’s hand snatched up the whiskey bottle, heavy and half-full, off the counter. He wasn't thinking; he was just reacting to the ultimate betrayal—the sheep fighting back.

Sally saw the movement, but she was too slow. She was strong, but she was human. She saw the glint of the glass, the vicious momentum, and she didn't flinch. She had bought them a few precious seconds. Percy was still behind the door. He was running. He had to run.

The glass connected. The sound was deafeningly loud, yet sickeningly dull.

The world tilted, turning into a kaleidoscope of red and black. The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth, mingling with the stench of Gabe. Her body crumpled against the sticky kitchen counter.

As the light faded, her mind, clear and sharp in the final moments, didn't focus on the pain, or the regret of the failed marriage, or even the rage at Gabe. It focused on the boy hiding behind the splintered door.

Run, my tiny hero. Run and never look back. Don't let them take who you are.

She had done what she thought was necessary. She had used the camouflage, worn the protective armor of human filth, and sacrificed every dream she ever had for him. She had chosen the lesser monster.

It failed.

All she could do was hope that her son would be okay.

That was her last thought as the world went dark.

That was her last thought.

It was a shame, truly, that the thought would be nothing more than a thought. In the grand scheme of things it wouldn’t mean anything.

Her son would not be okay.

If anything, his life would only become so much more painful.

It was a shame that her decision led to her downfall.

Maybe, in another world, she'd live and he’d never truly lose his childhood.

Or maybe in every single universe it stayed the same.

⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰ 

August 2001 

Gotham City, The Narrows / East End Two

Weeks After Running

Percy Jackson lived in the spaces between the trash bins.

It had been two weeks since he smashed his way out of the Narrows apartment, since the sound of the whiskey bottle had silenced his mother, since the word Arkham had replaced the word home.

He was eight years old, a ghost in a city full of them. He learned to be small, to be silent, and above all, to avoid three things: the police, the men who smelled like cheap cologne and carried knives (the muggers), and the giant, colorful hallucinations that confirmed what Gabe had told him: He was crazy.

Percy didn't know why he was still alive. He should have been dead a dozen times over. He often slept in an abandoned, waterlogged rowboat behind a condemned fish market—a spot that should have smelled terrible, but somehow, for Percy, always smelled faintly clean, like salt and cool air. He knew which dumpsters offered stale but unspoiled bread, and he instinctively avoided certain dark corners that made the hairs on his arms stand up.

He didn't know these survival instincts were the subtle, unconscious blessings of his heritage, the low hum of the sea guiding him toward safe havens and clean water. He only registered them as luck, a thin, unreliable thread that separated him from the other children who vanished into Gotham’s drains.

He kept the memory of his mother fiercely guarded, a warm spot in the freezing cold of his reality. But Gabe’s poison had settled deep. Every time he saw something impossible, the voice returned: Schizophrenic. You’re seeing things that aren’t there. Arkham is waiting for you.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

Gotham was a city of perpetual night, but its madness was brightly lit. Percy saw it everywhere, and the more he saw, the more certain he became that he had suffered a permanent mental break.

He was hiding in a dumpster behind an all-night diner one evening when the sound of chaotic laughter erupted down the alley. Percy burrowed down, pulling a damp tarp over his head, but curiosity—or morbid self-assessment—forced him to peek out.

A group of men was running toward him. They wore cheap, ridiculous purple suits and green hair. Leading them was a tall, thin man in a pristine, bright suit, his face a terrifying white mask, his mouth stretched into a vicious, unnatural red grin. The man was cackling, the sound like glass shattering in a high wind.

They were chasing a small, frightened man in a top hat and a tuxedo, who was waddling frantically and screaming about his "property."

This is it, Percy thought, paralyzed. The hallucination is getting worse. Now I'm seeing clowns.

He had read about it. When schizophrenia got bad, the imagined characters became vivid and started interacting with the world. He was seeing a Clown Man chase a Fat Bird Man.

The bright, violent chaos of the exchange was so surreal, so cartoonishly wrong, that Percy instinctively knew this was proof. He wasn’t just sad, he was truly sick. He watched the Clown Man beat the Fat Bird Man’s henchmen with a rubber chicken that somehow left large bruises.

When the police sirens finally screamed in the distance, the Clown Man merely tipped an imaginary hat and disappeared into the shadows, his laughter echoing.

Percy didn't stay to see the police. He scrambled out of the dumpster and ran in the opposite direction, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He didn’t dare speak to anyone, afraid his description of the green-haired clown would send him straight to the asylum.

He decided that Gotham was not a city, but a giant, collective fever dream, and he was the only one who realized it.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

He had heard the whispers from the other homeless people—mutterings about a "Bat," a shadow that protected the city. Percy had scoffed at first, until one clear night, high above the chaotic towers, he saw it.

A brilliant, vertical spotlight, cutting through the smog and clouds, projecting the jagged shape of a bat onto the sky.

It was impossibly huge. It was utterly ridiculous. It was a massive, shared delusion hanging over the most miserable city on earth.

Percy watched it from the alley where he slept, leaning against a rusted dumpster, his heart heavy with grief.

They all see it, he thought, numbly. The whole city is crazy. The man who kills people with a giant grinning plant, the man who thinks he’s an animal, the man who flies around in a cape—they all see it. The whole city is one big asylum, and I’m just another resident waiting for my straightjacket.

He realized that his mother, in her terrible wisdom, hadn't brought him to Gotham for safety; she had brought him here because in a place where clowns and giant bats were real, a boy who saw monsters was just one more tragic case. She had chosen a city so mad, that his own unique madness might be camouflaged.

He turned away from the light, closing his eyes against the truth. He missed New York. He missed his mother's cookies. He missed the blessed, ignorant simplicity of not seeing the world for the chaotic, hungry, impossible place it truly was. He was eight, alone, and desperately hoping his next hallucination wouldn't be the one that finally killed him.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

But as the days turned into weeks, the greatest danger wasn't the grinning man in the purple suit, or living on a piece of bread a week, or even the cold. It was the crushing, bone-deep certainty of his insanity. He was seeing things, the whole world was a lie, and the only person who had ever made him feel sane was gone.

His mother, in her terrible wisdom, had brought him to the city of madness for camouflage, but now the city itself felt like an overflowing asylum, and he was next in line for the treatment.

Exhaustion finally broke him. He hadn't slept a full hour in days, and the cold, damp weather of early September was starting to settle deep in his bones. His survival instincts—the lucky draw toward clean food and fresh water—began to fail, replaced by a deep, aching fatigue.

One night, the faint, salty scent of the sea, which he always associated with his mother, grew overpowering. It didn't lead him to his usual hiding spot near the fish market. It pulled him upward, toward the tallest structure over the largest body of water he could find: the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge.

He didn't know why he was walking. He was only following a promise, a comforting silence that seemed to wait for him there. When he reached the main span of the bridge, the wind was vicious, but the water below, the dark, churning Gotham River, sang a song only he could hear. It was a low, powerful thrum, a silent, ancient promise of peace. It whispered, I know you. I am here. Come home.

He crawled onto the thick stone railing, his scrawny legs dangling over the abyssal drop. The cold on the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge was a living thing, a biting, damp chill that clung to everything. But for the small, solitary figure perched on the bridge’s edge, it was a familiar ghost. He was curled up, a bundle of scrawny limbs in a ripped-up hoodie, his knees pulled to his chest as he stared into the swirling blackness of the Gotham River below. The rain had stopped, but the air felt heavy, suffocating. He didn't seem to notice. He was a universe away, lost in the river's pull.

"What are you doing out here, kid?"

Chapter Text

February 16, 2002

Wayne Manor, Gotham City

6 months & 5 days since Sally’s death Percy ran away 

Percy did not know how it happened.

He fell into a dark place in his mind, a bottomless abyss of silent, comforting black, and awoke in sheets that were too clean and too comfy, in a world that felt alien.

He fell asleep, coddled by darkness and a numbness that had seeped into his very soul, and awoke in a room far too bright for him. Bright in a way that hid the shadows, yes, but also bright in a way that made the places where light failed—the corners, the space under the furniture—much darker, much deeper, and much more menacing than anyone would ever know.

He fell asleep in the arms of the city's protector, the hulking figure of Batman—a gentle giant who had pulled him from the screaming void of the bridge—and woke up in the house of its provider, the legendary, untouchable Bruce Wayne. The irony was a bitter pill he hadn't yet been forced to swallow.

Percy wakes up slowly. The transition from the silent, all-encompassing dark to the overexposed reality is a slow, agonizing creep. First, the smell.

The room smells like soft laundry detergent and a faint, comforting trace of cinnamon.

That should have been the first clue, the jolt of cold water that sent him scrambling from the strange luxury. The laundry detergent spoke of routine, of a life lived without fear of where the next clean shirt would come from. The cinnamon—a warm, sweet spice—whispered of home, of baked goods and stability. It was the smell of a life he had only ever seen from the outside, pressed against the cold glass of a bakery window.

He was in a room. A singular, dedicated space for a singular person. Not an alleyway or a cramped, shared corner of a condemned building. He had the luxury of waking up slowly. No sudden, panicked scramble from the sound of heavy boots or the shriek of a siren. No instant, bone-deep assessment of the nearest exit, the sharpest shard of glass he could grab for defense. He had been permitted the vulnerability of a slow, unguarded return to consciousness.

He lay still for a long time, cataloging the strange new world around him. His eyelids were heavy, stuck fast with the residue of a sleep so deep it felt like a brief, pleasant death. Slowly, hesitantly, he forced them open.

The bed was a sea of blankets and pillows that he struggled to leave. Every blanket was a weight of comfort, every pillow a plush barrier against the harsh edges of the world. The sheets were impossibly smooth against his skin, a stark contrast to the coarse, scratchy wool of the single, filthy blanket he'd been hoarding for months. The bed was far too comfy, the blankets far too soft. There were pillows—not just one, but four, maybe five, plump and white, stacked like silent sentinels.

This was wrong. Everything about this place was a violation of the laws of his street-honed survival. Comfort was a trap. Softness was a lie. This kind of luxury was a magnet for predators, the kind of people who took pleasure in destroying what was beautiful and clean.

He focused on the sunlight. It streamed through the large, arched windows—windows so clean they were practically invisible—and illuminated motes of dust dancing in the air. The bed was so high he had to lower himself down with an awkward, stiff-limbed slide. His feet didn't hit the cold, hard wood he expected.

The carpet was soft against his feet, a thick, expensive pile that cushioned him when he fell in his haste to escape the too-soft prison of the bed. It smelled new, clean, and strangely sterile, like a patch of impossibly green grass in the middle of a concrete jungle.

The room was vast, an expanse of wealth and space that swallowed the sunlight, yet the sun filled every corner. It was a golden flood, pushing back the familiar shadows that had been his only true companions. For a moment, a tiny, foolish, dangerous moment, it felt like a world where shadows would never reach him. 

For a single, fleeting second, Percy felt safe.

The illusion shattered with a sound so small it was barely a whisper-the door creaking open

Instinct, the cold, sharp core of his existence, took over. He didn't think. His body simply moved, a blur of nine-year-old fear and street-honed agility. With a quick glance that registered the heavy, dark mahogany of the footboard, Percy slid under the bed.

It was instinctual, a reflex carved into his nervous system by months of hiding from drunks, from gangs, from the relentless, impersonal cruelty of the weather, and the uniformed indifference of the authorities. To hide was to live. To be seen was to be vulnerable. There was nothing a nine-year-old, even one who'd survived Gotham's relentless streets, could do against the horrors that lived there.

Except... he wasn’t on the streets anymore.

He had no idea where the fuck he was. The carpet fibers pressed into his cheek, smelling faintly of citrus polish. The world was reduced to the space between the floorboards and the box spring, a narrow, dark, but clean sanctuary.

Last he remembered...

The images hit him like a physical blow, a sudden, brutal replay that stole his breath. The cold. The wind. The hypnotic, lethal pull of the Gotham River.

He was on the bridge and then...Oh.

The traffic light-looking boy, Robin. The gentle giant, Batman. The sudden, crushing fatigue that had finally broken his desperate hold on consciousness. He’d cried. He’d broken down in front of a pair of masked strangers. The shame of it was a hot wave that flushed his skin even in the cool, dusty air under the bed.

He had been rescued. Or, more accurately, he had been taken.

‘Gotham's protector’ had saved him from the fall, but where had he delivered him? The stench of stale beer and desperation had been replaced by the scent of detergent and cinnamon. A simple trade: the temporary sanctuary of the streets for the long-term, inescapable cage of a system. Percy knew enough kids to know the system.

He would wind up back with Gabe or somewhere equally as bad-maybe even worse and-

His breath quickened in the small space as thoughts took up far too much room.

A pair of polished, black leather shoes stopped a foot from his face. 

He focused on those.

The shoes were immaculate, a mirror-shine reflecting the underside of the bed. They were the kind of shoes that cost more than Gabe had made in the whole time   knew him-and probably ever would make-shoes that belonged to a world of endless funds and zero mud. A well-creased trouser leg descended from a height that suggested a tall, imposing figure.

A voice, smooth and deep, possessed of a subtle, rolling cadence—a British accent—sliced through the silence. It was a voice that belonged on a stage or in a library, a voice entirely out of place in the dark under a bed.

"Master Jackson," the voice said, calmly, without an ounce of surprise or alarm. "I do apologize for the intrusion. However, I have brought your breakfast. It is a rather hearty porridge, I'm afraid, but I have dusted it with a rather generous portion of cinnamon, which I understand is a favorite for young palates."

The mention of cinnamon, the very scent that had been his undoing, was a calculated, subtle manipulation. This man knew things. They had been watching him, talking about him. The knowledge sent a fresh jolt of fear through him.

He held his breath, praying that the man, whoever he was, would simply leave.

The man chuckled, a warm, genuine sound that chipped away at Percy's defenses. "Hiding under the furniture, are we? A rather classic defensive maneuver, though I can assure you there is nothing under which to hide here. Unless, of course, you object to having breakfast with me. I was rather looking forward to your company."

"Very well. A stalemate. I will simply place the tray here, just outside your temporary fortress. I shall return in precisely ten minutes. Should you still be observing the dust bunnies, I shall be forced to assume you are resting and remove the breakfast. It is a rather unfortunate tragedy to waste good oats, Master Jackson."

With a soft clink of porcelain on wood, the man withdrew. The scent of cinnamon and warm milk drifted under the bed, a seductive siren song to a stomach that had only known scraps and hunger for months. It was a torture more refined than any threat.

Ten minutes. He could wait ten minutes. He had survived worse.

He waited. He didn’t trust the silence. He listened for footsteps fading down a hall, for the closing of a distant door, for anything that would confirm his solitude. Silence in Gotham was always a trick, a brief pause before the next disaster. But the silence here was different. It was deep, insulating, the silence of a house built on money and distance.

After what felt like an hour, Percy risked a peek.

The black shoes were gone. In their place, a silver tray rested on the polished hardwood floor, just beyond the thick pile of the carpet. On the tray sat a white bowl of steaming porridge, its surface sprinkled with a rich, dark swirl of cinnamon, and a tall glass of fresh, perfectly white milk. Beside it, a single, deep-red apple had been polished to a blinding sheen.

It looked... perfect. Too perfect. Like a picture in a fairytale book, the kind of meal that existed only in the imaginations of the starving.

He hesitated for another minute, his stomach protesting the stupidity of his fear. It’s a trap, a voice in his head screamed. It’s poisoned. They’ll drug you. But the other voice, the one that sounded like his mother, whispered, Eat, Percy. You're starving.

Finally, the pang of hunger won the desperate battle. Slowly, cautiously, Percy slid out from under the bed. He darted to the tray, grabbed the bowl, and retreated to the security of the carpet, his back pressed against the cool mahogany of the bedframe. He didn't dare use the spoon. He lifted the bowl and drank the porridge, the warm, thick mixture sliding down his throat, coating the emptiness in his stomach with a feeling he hadn't experienced in a very long time: satiety.

He was halfway through the milk, his guard slightly lowered by the simple pleasure of the food, when the door opened again. This time, it didn't creak. It opened silently, smoothly, announcing the arrival of the man not by sound, but by a sudden change in the atmosphere.

The man who entered was the owner of the shoes and the voice. He was tall, ramrod straight, with a kindly face creased by a thousand faint lines, and eyes that held a disconcerting depth of knowing. He wore a simple, pressed grey suit, and he carried himself with an effortless, quiet dignity. This was not a bodyguard. This was not a policeman. This was... an employee. A butler.

"Ah, good," the butler said, his voice softer now, almost conversational. "I see you've decided to partake. I was beginning to worry." He approached the bed, but stopped a respectful distance away, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

Percy froze, the glass of milk halfway to his lips. He swallowed hard. "Who are you?" he managed, his voice a hoarse croak.

The man offered a small, gentle smile. "My name is Alfred Pennyworth, Master Jackson. I am the majordomo, or simply put, the man who runs this house." He gestured vaguely to the enormous room. "You are currently a guest in Wayne Manor. Young Master Robin brought you here last night."

Wayne Manor. The name alone felt like a weight, a heavy, golden cage. Bruce Wayne. Billionaire playboy. The man on the TV, always smiling, always surrounded by flashing cameras. The last person on earth Percy would have expected to be rescued by.

"I need to leave," Percy said, scrambling to his feet, the empty bowl clattering on the tray. His stomach was full, and his adrenaline was spiking.

Alfred didn't move. He simply tilted his head, his gaze steady and calm. "Not yet, I'm afraid. You have a rather nasty concussion, a few bruised ribs, and you were rather severely hypothermic. You require several days of rest before even considering a stroll back to Gotham." He paused, his expression softening. "And, in truth, Master Bruce would like to have a word with you."

"I don't know a Bruce," Percy lied, pulling his arms instinctively across his chest. Maybe he could use the apple as ammo and then escape through one of those much too clean windows. Percy doubted the apple would do much-and that he’d be able to aim well enough but a shot was a shot.

"Oh, I believe you do," Alfred said, his eyes twinkling. "He is an associate of the man who collected you from the bridge. The gentleman in the... ah... the large, black coat and cowl."

Percy stared. He struggled to reconcile the image of the stoic, terrifying figure who had held him—the one the street kids whispered about, the one Alfred referred to so vaguely—with the TV images of the grinning, carefree, perpetually-on-vacation billionaire—Bruce Wayne.

"Batman is… friends with... Bruce Wayne?" Percy whispered.

"Indeed," Alfred confirmed, his tone one of quiet pride. "Bruce is a benefactor to a great number of individuals and organizations in Gotham. He has a... shall we say, a very good working relationship with Batman. They trust each other, and when Batman finds a situation that requires a more permanent, stabilizing environment than the streets, he often sends them here to Master Bruce."

Alfred made the explanation sound perfectly reasonable, a simple matter of logistics and philanthropy. Percy didn't believe it for a second, but it was a much less terrifying explanation than "a vigilante is your sugar daddy."

"Why?" Percy demanded, suspicious. "People don't just do things. What do you want?"

Alfred’s face was genuinely pained. "My answer is simple: we want nothing. Master Bruce has a great deal of wealth, and he uses it to address the inequities of this city, often at the request of those who work on the ground, like his friend, Batman. We want you to heal. And perhaps, to have a second chance."

A sound from the hallway interrupted the tense silence. It was a loud, chaotic noise—the unmistakable sound of running feet, followed by a whoop of triumph, and then a muffled thump.

Alfred sighed, a long-suffering sound, but there was a distinct, fond upturn to the corner of his mouth. "Ah. I believe you are about to meet the other residents of this rather eccentric household."

Percy tensed, curling up into a tighter ball, apple tucked away behind him in case. Maybe he’d throw the glass of milk at them. Keep the apple for later. The milk would blind them and the glass would shatter. Hopefully.

The door was thrown open with dramatic force, not by a scuffle, but by the sheer, unbridled energy of a boy rushing in.

He was a boy—taller than Percy, perhaps twelve or thirteen, with a mop of unruly black hair and a pair of startling, eager blue eyes. He was wearing a faded band t-shirt and jeans ripped more from wear than fashion, but his whole body was alight with barely contained excitement. This was Jason Todd. He looked less like a troubled street kid and more like a puppy that had just spotted a new chew toy—Percy.

Jason skidded to a stop, his eyes locking onto Percy, who was still backed against the wall. Before anyone could speak, Jason beamed, a wide, genuine, slightly manic smile that made him look younger than his age.

"Oh, man, you're awake!" Jason exclaimed, his voice a burst of enthusiastic sound. He didn't come closer, clearly sensing Percy's fear, but he bounced on the balls of his feet. "Welcome to the Manor! I'm Jason, the designated older brother around here. The one who's gonna show you the ropes, which mostly means telling you where Alfred hides the good snacks."

His introduction was a complete information overload, delivered with the speed and sincerity of a street hustler trying to sell a genuine product.

Before Percy could process this, a much more imposing figure entered the room. It was the tall, handsome man in the rumpled suit. This was Bruce Wayne. He looked less like a billionaire and more like a very very tired father.

"Jason, give him some space," Bruce said, his voice a low, gentle warning, though he looked more amused than annoyed by Jason's zeal. He offered Percy the practiced, easy smile of a celebrity, though it held genuine concern. "Ah, you're awake. I'm Bruce Wayne. We're glad you're okay, Jackson." The speech felt practiced.

Percy stared at the three of them: Alfred, the placid, knowing butler; Bruce, the imposing, rumpled father-figure and billionaire; and Jason, the overwhelmingly enthusiastic boy who had just declared himself Percy's new relative.

Jason, ignoring Bruce, lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper, leaning in slightly toward Percy. "See, I told Bruce he was getting lonely and I needed a brother who wasn't old and boring like Dick or... well, Dick. B's great, but he sucks at finding people. Batman found you, right? Which is good, 'cause Batman only finds the cool kids."

"Jason," Bruce repeated, giving his adopted son a weary look.

"Right, right, boundaries," Jason conceded, straightening up but still radiating hyper-friendly energy. He clapped his hands together once. "So, look. Forget the orphanage. Forget the system. B is a soft touch. Batman brings him strays—it’s like a running joke in the papers, trust me—and B keeps 'em. You're small, which is fine, I was small too. You need new clothes, I know exactly which box B stuffed with the barely-used hand-me-downs. You need to know the secret door to the kitchen. I'm your guy. It's a whole thing."

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The overwhelming wave of Jason's big-brother excitement was confusing. Percy was braced for hostility, for competition, for the cold shoulder he’d received on the streets. Instead, he got... enthusiasm. An instant, unearned acceptance. Jason wasn't treating him like a threat; he was treating him like a prized find, a new addition to his personal tribe.

Bruce, recognizing the immediate, protective bond Jason was forming, let out a slow, deliberate breath, his tension visibly easing. He knew that the hardest part of bringing a new child into the manor was convincing Jason that his own position wasn't threatened. Clearly, with Percy, that wasn't going to be an issue. Jason saw a younger version of himself he needed to protect. Maybe it had to do with Jason being the one to find Percy on that bridge. Curled up to keep the cold and the world away.

"Jason is... right," Bruce said, offering Percy a genuine smile that finally seemed to soften the lines around his eyes. "He is an excellent guide to the house. And he is very good at finding the snacks Alfred tries to hide."

"It's a gift," Jason muttered proudly, puffing out his chest.

Percy, completely thrown off balance, finally found his voice, a small, cracked sound. "Who... who are you people?" he asked, waving a shaky hand between the three men.

Alfred stepped forward, taking the central role in the explanation once more. "We are simply a household, Master Jackson, that believes in offering help to those in need. Master Bruce's friend, Batman, has an extensive network and understands the severe hardship faced by children on the streets of Gotham. It is his method—a rather unorthodox one, I'll admit—to ensure that those he finds are brought here for safety and care."

"Right, it's like a special, high-end, secretive foster program," Jason cut in, simplifying the explanation with his characteristic bluntness. "But way better, because B has enough money for unlimited video games and pizza, and we don't have to deal with the paperwork. The only rule is: don't break the fancy stuff, and don't ruin Alfred’s kitchen."

"You can just be a ward for now if you want,'" Bruce added, his tone soothing. "You're hurt, Jackson. You're exhausted. You need time to heal, physically and mentally, without the fear of the police or the system looming over you. We are not calling anyone. You are our guest, and you set the timeline for your stay."

"But... why me?" Percy asked, his eyes darting back to Jason, looking for the tell-tale lie he knew so well from Gabe.

Jason’s excited expression faltered, replaced by a sudden, intense seriousness that was far more unnerving than his earlier enthusiasm. He looked directly at Percy, his sky-blue eyes unblinking.

"Why not you?" Jason challenged, his voice suddenly low and firm. "You were cold. You were starving. You were on a bridge in the middle of the night, alone. That's it. That's the only reason you need. I was on the streets, too. B found me trying to steal the tires off his car. He didn't ask why; he just brought me here. Now I have a room, a library bigger than my old apartment, and this emotionally-constipated man who calls himself my dad," He jerked his thumb toward Bruce. "It's a lottery, kid. You won. Don't fight it."

Percy’s throat tightened. Jason's words were a mirror, reflecting his own desperate reality. The "why" was the only thing that mattered to Percy, because the reason dictated the cost. If the cost was just a new, irritating big brother, that was a price he could pay.

"I’m not a kid.” A second, just barely a pause, as Percy processed, “My mom is gone," Percy whispered, the confession tearing out of him, raw and painful. "That... Gabe... he hurt her. She’s gone. If I go back to the city, they'll put me back with people like him." He choked on the last word.

Bruce immediately pushed himself out of the chair, his celebrity facade completely dissolving into the worried father. He was across the room in two long strides, kneeling a safe distance from Percy.

"I am so sorry, Jackson," Bruce said, his voice thick with genuine emotion. He looked like he was fighting the urge to hug the terrified boy. "I promise you, on my honor, that will never happen. You will not go back to him, or anyone like him. You are safe here. We will not force you into the system. You stay here, with us, until we find a solution you are comfortable with."

Before Bruce could say anything else, Jason gently nudged his adopted father aside, moving between Bruce and Percy. Jason didn't kneel; he sat down on the floor, cross-legged, the picture of casual, non-threatening openness.

"Look, Jackson," Jason said, "I get it. Losing your mom is the worst. But she'd want you warm, right? She'd want you eating actual food, not dumpsters. And you deserve to be warm and full. So let's focus on that first, okay? We'll deal with the paperwork and the big decisions later. For now, you're the little brother who's got a concussion, and my job is to make sure you have enough comic books and ice cream. Deal?"

He held out a hand, not for a handshake, but for a high-five, treating Percy like a teammate.

Percy stared at the hand. It was scarred, calloused, but clean, the nails neatly trimmed. A street kid's hand, but a cared-for one. He saw his own future reflected in that hand: the possibility of healing, of moving past the grime of the streets.

He slowly raised his own hand, still covered in the fading bruises of his ordeal, and lightly slapped Jason's palm. "Deal," he whispered.

A relieved, triumphant grin split Jason's face. "Awesome! Now, first thing's first. Alfred, bring the good snacks. The extra-suggary ones. This kid is getting spoiled. And B, you go get the X-Men omnibus. We need to introduce the little guy to the proper canon."

Bruce chuckled, the sound deep and rich, shaking his head at his son's bossiness. "The X-Men omnibus it is, Jason. And Alfred, please, not too much sugar?” he added on weakly, seeming almost pleading.  

Alfred, standing by the door, gave a small, knowing bow. "Indeed, Master Bruce. I shall endeavor to make sure that the Young Masters will be able to sleep."

Percy watched Alfred retreat, then looked from the retreating figure of Bruce to the beaming face of Jason.

He had been rescued by a strange, chaotic collection of millionaires and street kids, all apparently orchestrated by a guy in a bat costume who was friends with a man who was obsessed with collecting damaged children. It was utterly insane, the most impossible, unbelievable story he had ever heard.

But as he sat there, full of warm porridge, staring at his new, over-the-top big brother, Percy felt a flicker of something new, something small and fragile, something that felt like a second chance. He had survived the streets. He might just survive this manor, too.

"My name's not Jackson," Percy said, quietly, finally letting go of the first, small lie. "It's Percy. Percy Jackson."

Jason nodded, the light in his eyes warm and bright. "Got it, Perce. Percy Jackson. The newest, coolest little brother. Welcome home. I am going to be such a better big brother than Dick."

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 ⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰ 

March 2, 2002

Gotham

15 days Since being adopted  becoming a ward of Bruce Wayne Waking Up in Wayne Manor 

12:49

The silence of Wayne Manor was a heavy thing, pressing down on Percy like the soft, unfamiliar weight of the expensive comforter on his bed. Fifteen days. Fifteen days of clean clothes, of food that wasn't stale or half-eaten, and of the exhausting, relentless, over-the-top niceness of the Waynes. He felt less like a rescued kid and more like…well like family.

He'd tried to tell himself he was staying for the food, for the warmth, for the unbelievable library that smelled like old paper and leather. But the truth was, he was staying because of Jason. Jason, who treated him not like a charity case but like a secret weapon. Jason, who’d sat with him for hours showing him the secret, hidden corners of the massive house, who’d introduced him to the X-Men's dense, confusing continuity, and who fought to get him the sugariest snacks Bruce tried to ban. Jason who fought to make sure Percy felt wanted.

Still, the guilt was a stone in his stomach the porridge couldn’t dissolve. He was a fake. A liar. He hadn't told them everything. He hadn't told them about the monsters that chased him long before Gabe. The voices. The things that had whispered impossible truths about his father. The Manor was safe from the streets, but he had a terrifying, gut-deep feeling that it wasn't safe from him. He was a ticking time bomb, a natural disaster waiting to happen, and the Waynes were the only innocent people in the blast radius.

He needed to breathe air that didn't smell like detergent and cinnamon. He needed the grit of Gotham back under his sneakers, just for an hour, to remind himself who he was and what he had escaped. Maybe he could meet Batman and Robin again. Say thank you. But then again, Batman was ‘friends’ with Bruce. He didn’t want to get tattled on by some overgrown furry. Robin seemed cool though.

The way everyone talked about Bruce and Batman's relationship was weird. Maybe they were dating or something. Exs? Maybe they were just scared Percy was homophobic.

He waited until the late afternoon, when Bruce was supposedly at some incomprehensible 'board meeting' and Jason was distracted by a particularly gruesome murder mystery in a hardback novel. Alfred was in the kitchen, a symphony of clinking silver and humming ovens. Percy slipped out the library’s ground-floor window, the one Jason had pointed out as the 'emergency escape hatch for when Bruce gets too preachy.' It was a ridiculous, effortless slide into the overgrown hedges, a freedom that tasted bittersweet.

He took the subway, an impersonal, rumbling beast of a train that smelled like spilled coffee and metallic dust—a scent that felt more like home than any clean sheet. He knew where he was going: The Narrows. His old territory. The crumbling, forgotten district across the river, all peeling paint and fire escapes.

By the time Percy finally found a spot—a cold, tar-paper rooftop overlooking a cluster of condemned brownstones—the sun was long gone, replaced by the bruised, smoky indigo of a Gotham night. This was where he used to be. Curled up against a heating vent, watching the impossible figures of Batman and Robin patrol the skylines. He was looking for a sign, a confirmation that the world of masks and impossible stunts was real, that his new life wasn't just a bizarre, fever dream.

He was focused on the far distance, searching the familiar gothic spires for the shadow of a cape or the flash of yellow, when a small, cool voice broke the silence right behind him.

"You're not supposed to be here."

Percy yelped, a strangled, embarrassed sound, and spun around. His heart, which had been beating at a regular, Manor-lull rhythm, hammered against his ribs like a frantic bird.

The speaker was a boy, maybe ten or eleven, slightly taller than Percy. He was practically invisible, dressed in dark, unremarkable clothes that absorbed the smoky light of the Gotham night. A heavy, professional-looking camera with an enormous lens was slung over his chest. His eyes, a sharp, unnerving gray-ice-blue, fixed on Percy with intense, unblinking focus.

"Whoa, chill," the boy said, holding up a pair of competent-looking hands. "Didn't mean to trigger your flight response. I was just letting you know you're in a high-traffic area. My area, actually."

Percy’s fear immediately curdled into irritation. He’d risked Alfred's disapproval, Bruce's concerned look, and Jason's smothering big-brother routine just to get a breath of real air, and now some kid was trying to pull rank on him.

"Your area?" Percy challenged, planting his worn sneakers on the rough tar paper. "Did you buy this roof? Last I checked, it's owned by the city, and the city ain't paying nobody to guard it."

The boy didn't react to the aggression, only adjusted his camera strap with a proprietary air. "Ownership is irrelevant. I established primary use. I have a three-month history of documented, continuous observation from this precise vantage point. That constitutes territory rights in the Narrows. You’re violating a long-standing pattern of occupancy."

"I was here first tonight," Percy shot back, crossing his arms. "I was here a lot of nights about…six months ago, so if anyone’s got 'long-standing patterns,' it’s me."

The boy raised a finely sculpted eyebrow, his intense eyes flicking over Percy’s recently mended and far-too-clean jeans—hand-me-downs Jason had sourced from a trunk labeled 'D.G. Adolescence'—and his clean, uninjured face. Maybe he should’ve rolled around in a puddle of mud or something.

"Six months ago? Unlikely," the boy countered, his tone dry and dismissive, like a teacher correcting a particularly stupid mistake. "A person like you doesn't survive six months of Gotham winter on the streets without severe malnutrition, which your current body mass index strongly contradicts. You’ve been rehabilitated. That scent—lavender, cinnamon, and the distinct metallic trace of a high-end iron supplement—suggests recent, extensive care at a facility with extremely high standards."

Percy froze, the blood draining from his face. "How—"

"The name's Tim," the boy cut in, not offering a last name, maintaining the street code. "And I don't need to know you personally. I know patterns. I observe the system." He tapped the ground where Percy was standing with the toe of his boot. "And this spot," he emphasized, "is the only angle that gives me the required focal depth on Robin’s left-side blind spot when he does the triple-leap across the old Gotham Clock Tower complex. You need to move. You’re blocking my shot."

The smug arrogance was overwhelming. Percy’s hands clenched into fists, the familiar instinct for a fight rising up. This kid knew too much. 

"You’re just some rich kid playing spy," Percy spat, trying to inject venom into his voice. "If you know so much, why are you out here in the cold? Go home and play with your fancy toys."

Tim gave a short, dismissive sniff. "I’m here because no one else is doing the real work. And my camera is not a 'toy'; it’s a necessary investigative tool. Furthermore, I’ve tracked the light refraction and atmospheric distortions over the last 90 nights. Tonight, at 01:52 AM, the humidity will be exactly 67%, giving me optimal clarity for the telephoto. You are currently contaminating the air with a slightly elevated output of carbon dioxide due to your increased respiratory rate—likely from adrenaline—which will interfere with my focus."

He pulled out a small, worn binder and flipped it open, revealing a detailed graph that looked like something out of a science textbook. "I don't play. I document."

Percy felt a strange mix of terror and begrudging respect. This kid was operating on a level that made the streets, even Batman, seem predictable.

"Alright. The Clock Tower light is shifting. They're making the jump. You have exactly one minute to get off my rooftop and back toward the subway without contaminating the sightline. You can keep the spot for the rest of the night. Consider it a lease agreement with the territory’s primary observer."

Percy hesitated, watching Tim press his eye to the camera, already lost to the world of observation. He was weird. He was arrogant. He was absolutely terrifyingly brilliant. And he was, in his own, analytical way, trying to help.

"Hey, Tim," Percy called out softly as he started to back away.

Tim didn't lower the camera; his eye was glued to the distant skyline. "What is it? The jump is imminent."

"It’s still not your roof," Percy challenged, grinning. It was a huge, genuine smile that felt electric on his face. The knot of guilt and isolation that had been sitting in his stomach for months finally loosened. He had found a friend in the dark, a kid whose obsession with patterns and protection rivaled Percy's own desperate need for control. He'd never admit it though.

"It is my roof by right of superior strategy," Tim countered, not missing a beat, though he lowered the camera fractionally, annoyed by the distraction. "I mapped the thermal outflow of the neighboring vents. I tracked the wind shear from the river. I optimized this location for sustained, long-term surveillance. You merely stumbled onto it, operating on primal impulse. That grants you a temporary transit visa, not ownership."

Percy scoffed, shaking his head. "I lived on roofs. This is my kind of impulse. That makes my claim older than your fancy little spreadsheet."

"Age is irrelevant to efficacy," Tim retorted, his electric blue eyes flashing with competitive focus. "Now, move. My variables are being corrupted."

"Will do, Mr. Observer," Percy said, finally turning to head for the fire escape.

"And!" Tim called, his voice dropping to a serious, final warning. "If I see you here again, you're buying the donuts! I prefer glazed, minimum of three!"

"Deal!" Percy yelled back, laughing as he scrambled down the rusted ladder, the sound swallowed by the rumbling heart of Gotham.

Percy Jackson was safe. He had a roof, a full stomach, an overwhelming big brother, and now, a terrifying, hyper-intelligent maybe-hopefully friend who was holding his life together with red string and photographic evidence. He had survived Gabe. He had survived the Narrows. He just might survive the Waynes. 

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 ⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰ 

March 12, 2002

Wayne Manor

25 Days Since Waking up In Wayne Manor

1:36 AM

The nightmare was loud. It was all green light, salt, and the paralyzing sound of water rushing where it shouldn't be. Percy shot upright in his bed, tangled in the heavy covers, his heart hammering out a panicked rhythm against his ribs. He sat there for several minutes, waiting for the shadows of the massive, unfamiliar room to solidify and stop moving.

The Manor was vast and silent, the silence somehow worse than the noises. He hated the dark. He hated the quiet. But mostly, he hated the feeling of being cold, even when the air was warm.

Tears, hot and sharp, tracked down his cheeks. He needed his mom.

He eventually fumbled his way out of bed, dragging the thick, dark-blue quilt with him. He wrapped it tightly around his shoulders, then cinched the edges together, effectively creating a walking, nine-year-old burrito in a king-sized blanket.

He shuffled through the immense halls, drawn instinctively toward the single low light he could see glowing from under the far door: the kitchen.

Alfred was there, exactly where he should be. The old man was wearing a navy dressing gown and was studying a small list pinned to the fridge, a pair of reading glasses perched low on his nose.

He didn't jump or even look up immediately. He just registered the noise and spoke in a low, even tone.

“Goodness, Master Percy. Did we lose a particularly handsome area rug? Because if so, I suspect you have wrapped it around yourself.”

Percy stumbled into the room, the quilt dragging slightly on the tiled floor. He couldn't speak, just stood there shaking slightly, his wide blue-green eyes reflecting the kitchen lights.

Alfred, seeing the raw fear in the boy’s expression, abandoned his list immediately. He moved with the quiet efficiency of someone who had done this exact routine countless times before, with other boys of all ages and all forms of trauma.

“A bad dream, then,” Alfred murmured, his voice gentle and factual, without judgment. He didn’t ask what it was about; he knew the drill.

He gently guided Percy to the large center island, pulling up a sturdy wooden stool. Percy sat down heavily, still encased in the quilt.

Alfred moved to the stove, setting a small kettle on the burner. “Well, the best remedy for a scare is warmth and something to settle the nerves. Master Jason always found hot chocolate to be efficacious, but I think for you, a little something… new.”

Percy watched Alfred work, his attention held by the calm, measured movements. Alfred poured water, then selected a small tin, opening it to release a soft, inviting steam. He dipped the bag, added a splash of milk, and a generous dollop of honey from a glass bear dispenser.

“This, Master Percy, is tea,” Alfred explained, presenting the warm mug on a small saucer. “Chamomile. Very gentle. A touch of honey to sweeten the bitter world, and milk to keep it polite. We must always be polite, even to our beverages.”

Percy tentatively lowered the quilt just enough to expose his mouth. He looked at the mug with suspicion. “I’ve never had tea.”

“Then it is high time you did. It is excellent for settling a churning stomach and a restless mind. Sip slowly. It’s quite hot.”

Percy blew gently on the surface, the warm, floral steam rising to kiss his face. He took a small, careful sip.

The flavor was nothing like juice or milk. It was comforting, warm, and sweet, but with a delicate herbal backdrop that felt somehow clean. The heat spread immediately through his chest, chasing away the cold memory of the nightmare.

Percy took a second, longer sip, then a third. He didn't speak. He just sat on the stool, wrapped in his blanket, silently drinking his tea.

Alfred watched him, leaning against the counter, hands clasped behind his back. He didn't hover or prompt. He just offered his quiet presence, which was, in itself, the most profound comfort.

Finally, Percy finished the last drop and pushed the empty mug forward.

“It’s good,” Percy whispered.

Alfred smiled, a slight, knowing crease around his eyes. “Indeed. We shall make a regular of it, then. Now, my young hero of the night. Do you feel ready to face those dreadful shadows again?”

Percy nodded, the tea having done its job. He felt grounded, warm, and safe. “Yes, Alfred.”

“Excellent. Now, if you would kindly divest yourself of the Manor’s linens, I will escort you back to bed.”

Alfred walked him back, ensuring the nightlight was on and the door was slightly ajar. Percy fell back asleep almost instantly, the soft, warm taste of honeyed tea lingering pleasantly on his tongue, replacing the taste of salt and fear. It was the first time in the Manor he had slept without waking up crying.

(Yet still a part of him curled in shame. He should tell them about the monsters, the illusions. He was scared. He didn’t want them to abandon him. They should know.)

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 ⊱✿⊰ Jason POV ⊱✿⊰ 

April 3, 2002

Wayne Manor

47 Days Since Waking up in Wayne Manor

11:45 PM

Jason checked his wrist. 11:45 PM. Fifteen minutes until the nightly meeting in the Cave, which meant fifteen minutes to put on a suitably casual 'late-night reading' persona, check on Percy, and grab a massive mug of Alfred’s instant coffee. Tonight’s cover: researching early Roman philosophy.

He poked his head into Percy’s enormous bedroom. The room was unnecessarily large, and Percy, perched on the edge of the immense bed, looked like a small, anxious bird.

“Alright, squirt, lights out for real,” Jason murmured, leaning against the doorframe in his favorite faded band hoodie. He was technically ready for patrol, but the thick outer layer provided the necessary plausible deniability. “I’m heading down to the library to read about the decline of the Western world. Try to knock out.”

Percy was already wrapped in his quilt, but he was bouncing his knees restlessly. “I can’t. My head won’t stop making fast pictures. They smell like salt.”

Jason recognized the familiar signs of a mind that wouldn't settle. It was an anxiety Jason knew well, though Percy's was steeped in a different kind of trauma. He sighed, his fifteen minutes of pre-patrol psych-up instantly erased. Tonight, the patrol would just have to wait.

“Fine. C’mon. Library,” Jason said, already turning. “We’ll try something truly ancient. Something so long and boring it resets your entire brain.”

Percy scrambled off the bed, clutching his quilt like a protective shell.

They settled into the massive, worn leather armchair in the library. Jason pulled two heavy, cloth-bound volumes from the shelf above: the great epics.

“Which one first?” Jason asked, holding up The Iliad and The Odyssey.

Percy pointed eagerly at the latter. “The Odyssey! It has boats and cyclopes and the ocean! Please?”

Jason made a face of intellectual disdain. “Emotionally resonant, Perce, sure. But we have to respect the historical canon. Start chronologically. You can’t appreciate the existential doom of a ten-year voyage home until you understand the preceding ten years of horrific, bloody warfare that caused it.” He opened The Iliad. “It’s about rage, death, and horses. Try to keep up with the advanced themes.”

Jason began reading the opening lines, his voice low and rhythmic, an effective monotone. Sing, goddess, the rage of Peleus' son Achilles, that murderous, doomed rage that brought countless woes upon the Achaeans…

The irony of reading a nine-year-old an epic poem about divine fury and mass slaughter was not lost on Jason, but he had a feeling that the sheer, boring weight of the historical narrative would beat out the nightmare imagery.

He was right. Within twenty minutes, Percy’s tense shoulders relaxed. His breathing evened out. The small, tense body slumped completely against Jason’s side. The book slid down slightly, acting as a pillow. Percy was soundly asleep.

Jason kept reading the description of the siege, though now he was reading mostly to the thick braid of Percy’s hair. He shifted subtly to get comfortable, letting Percy curl fully into his chest. Patrol could wait. He was doing important sibling work.

 ⊱✿⊰ Bruce POV ⊱✿⊰ 

April 3, 2002

Wayne Manor

47 Days Since Adopting Percy

11:58 PM

Bruce was already in the Cave, suited up, reviewing the patrol grid on the large monitor. He frowned at the clock: 11:58 PM. Jason was never this late without a warning.

He radioed up. "Robin to Red Hood, status report."

Only silence came back. Bruce sighed. He ascended the elevator, intending to drag his teenage partner out of the library and into the twenty-first century.

He paused just inside the library entrance.

The light was low, cast by a single, ornate desk lamp. Jason was sprawled in the immense chair, his knees bent over the armrest, his head craned awkwardly to accommodate the small, sleeping passenger tucked against his side. Percy was soundly asleep, his head pillowed on Jason’s shoulder, one small hand clutching the front of Jason’s hoodie. The sound of the reading had stopped.

Jason saw Bruce first. His eyes widened slightly in apology, and he slowly, carefully raised the index finger of his free hand, placing it against his lips in a universal, firm shush.

Bruce stopped dead in his tracks. The patrol, the missing shipment of serum, the city's ceaseless demands—all of it dissolved into the gentle yellow pool of lamplight.

He didn't need words. Jason’s expression was a silent plea: He couldn't sleep. He’s been reading for an hour. He just drifted off. Don't you dare wake him.

Bruce nodded, a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his chin that conveyed a world of gratitude and acceptance. He silently retrieved his utility belt from its hidden cubby, strapped it on, and left the room without making a sound. The patrol was going to be solo tonight. The city would survive a few hours without his backup.

He was, against all logic, happy.

It was 4:30 AM when Bruce returned. He entered the Manor, moving quietly, his muscles aching with the pleasant fatigue of a successful night. The house was once again dark, save for that single, persistent glow emanating from the library.

He walked in to find the scene unchanged, but even more slumped and comfortable. Jason had finally succumbed to exhaustion, his head resting against the high back of the chair, his mouth slightly open. The Iliad was now on the floor. Both boys were deeply asleep, a tangled, trusting mess of blankets and limbs. Percy had migrated even closer, half-slid into Jason's lap, his small hand still clinging to Jason’s shirt.

Bruce found a soft, dark-blue quilt—the one Alfred insisted was too expensive for mere sleeping—and unfolded it carefully. He draped it over the two sleeping figures, tucking the edges gently around their shoulders. He watched them for a moment, the rhythm of their breathing perfectly synchronized.

The chaos of the city was a necessary evil. But moments like this—moments of unexpected connection and quiet responsibility—were the reason he fought to protect it.

He turned off the desk lamp, casting the library into soft shadows, and finally retired for the night, leaving his middle and youngest son in their peaceful, ancient refuge.

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 ⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰ 

June 4, 2002

Wayne Manor, Gotham

3 Months 20 days since Percy arrived

7:56 PM

Percy Jackson had faced down thugs with rusty knives and dodged speeding taxis in the Narrows, but nothing had ever made his stomach twist with pure, existential dread like the six chairs lined around the enormous mahogany dining table in Wayne Manor.

It was only the second formal dinner since he’d been brought in, and Bruce had insisted on inviting "family."

"Master Percy, chin up, please," Alfred Pennyworth murmured, his tone as smooth and comforting as the silk tie around his neck, yet carrying the absolute authority of a headmaster.

Percy felt like an expensive, ill-fitting doll. He was encased in a starched collar that felt like a chokehold and pressed slacks that were too smooth to be real. The air in the room was thick and still, smelling of beeswax, old money, and the faint, nervous sweat of a billionaire who was trying too hard.

Bruce sat at the head of the table, impeccably dressed, but his tie was slightly askew—a tiny imperfection Percy, the former street kid, instantly spotted. Bruce wasn't anxious about the food or the protocol; he was anxious about the dynamic of the people gathered.

"They should be here any minute, boys," Bruce said, his voice low and rehearsed.

Boys. The word felt hollow and huge in the empty room.

Jason, sitting to Percy’s left, kicked him lightly under the table—a true, sibling gesture that instantly grounded Percy. Jason was dressed just as formally, but his jacket was open, and he had obviously hidden a thick, leather-bound copy of a book in the bread basket before Alfred swept it away.

"Don't worry," Jason whispered, leaning in. "They’re insane. Dick’s a walking gym accident, and Babs is a walking library. Just agree with whatever Dick says and don’t make eye contact with Bruce. It's how we survive."

Jason, at fourteen, was the only consistent piece of this impossible puzzle. He was the one who brought Percy lukewarm hot chocolate and terrible action figures when Bruce was gone.

A sudden, sharp peel of laughter echoed from the main hall, followed by a loud, familiar thump and an immediate, sharp, non-Alfred voice saying, "I swear, if you break one more piece of antiquity, I’m putting a leash on you, Grayson!"

"Showtime," Jason muttered, leaning back with a mischievous grin. "Get ready for the main event."

The dining room doors opened, and the formal stillness of Wayne Manor instantly shattered.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

Two figures strode in, bringing with them a rush of cool, fresh Gotham air and a sense of easy movement that felt utterly foreign to the stiff perfection of the manor.

The first was a tall, lean young man, probably around nineteen, with close-cropped black hair and a vibrant, genuine smile that made the lights in the chandelier seem dimmer. He moved with a startling, almost unconscious athleticism, his steps light and quick—the kind of movement Percy recognized instantly as trained and dangerous. This had to be Dick Grayson, the former ward and the focus of Bruce’s constant, simmering tension.

"Alfiiiie! You absolute angel, you made the risotto!" Dick cried, sweeping past Bruce (who stiffened slightly at the casual lack of recognition) to engulf Alfred in a brief, bone-crushing hug.

"Master Dick, the table is set, if you please," Alfred said, smiling warmly, clearly allowing this one breach of etiquette.

The second figure was a young woman with vivid red hair and glasses perched on her nose, radiating calm energy. This was Barbara Gordon. She walked with a noticeable, controlled grace, her steps light and sure. Her eyes, magnified slightly behind the lenses, were bright, sharp, and immediately found Percy.

"Bruce, thanks for the invite," Barbara said easily, walking directly to the table and greeting Bruce with a simple, familial peck on the cheek. Bruce seemed to relax one millimeter. "Percy, it is so great to finally meet you. I’m Babs—and you better call me Babs, because 'Barbara' makes me feel like,” she pauses for a moment, thinking, “well, just call me Babs"

She held out her hand. Percy, startled by the directness, awkwardly shook it. Her grip was firm and dry.

"Hi," Percy mumbled, feeling the sudden, overwhelming weight of the four adult eyes on him.

"And hey, Jay-Bird!" Dick finally turned to Jason, and the tension in the room instantly evaporated. "Look at you, all grown up! Don't tell me you polished the silver yourself. Is it true you spent an hour arguing with the coffee maker this morning?"

"I was debugging the coffee maker, Dickhead," Jason retorted, but his voice was brightened by the attention. "It was using a flawed pressure algorithm. And no, Alfred did the silver, because some of us respect his time, unlike the guy who nearly flattened his flowerbed on the way up the drive."

Dick threw his head back and laughed—a loud, joyful sound that echoed inappropriately in the formal setting. "It was a small drift, Jay. Nothing Alfred can't fix with a trowel and some deeply disappointed sighing."

Bruce cleared his throat. "Dick, perhaps we could observe the seating arrangement, please."

Dick shot Bruce a look that was polite on the surface but held years of practiced rebellion underneath. "Sure thing, B. Lead the way. You can tell me all about the latest merger that is definitely not a tax write-off for your many charitable foundations."

The subtle jab about Bruce's wealth and control hung in the air. Dick took the seat across from Jason, and Barbara settled in the seat next to Dick, strategically placing herself between the two volatile sides of the room: Bruce and Dick. Percy realized his own seat, next to Jason, positioned him squarely on the Kids' Team.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

Alfred began serving the risotto—creamy, saffron-colored, and intimidatingly perfect. Percy stared at the tiny grains of rice, struggling to remember which fork he was supposed to use.

Dick, blessedly, saved him. He snatched up the largest fork and started eating with a casual enthusiasm that bordered on bad manners. "So, Percy," Dick said, turning his magnetic smile on him, "Jason says you guys have been tackling the Odyssey. Big fan of ancient Greek, right?"

"Uh, yeah, well, The Illiad,” Percy corrects, nervously, “Jace said we should do it in Cono-Chrono- timeline order,” Percy finishes lamely, struggling to remember the word, “And Jason is," Percy added, immediately looking down. "I mean, he reads it to me. I'm... slow with the words."

"Slow with the words?" 

Jason cut in immediately, pushing his foot against Percy's under the table. "Percy's got a highly efficient, visual brain, Dick. The letters just decide to run around on the page for fun. So I read to him. We just barely started The Iliad. And I’m doing the heavy lifting, since some people can't process those Greek words without their brains turning to soup."

"Jason is the most competent human being alive, he’s never 'slow' at anything," Dick joked, but his eyes were kind when he looked at Percy. "That’s actually really cool, guys. The Iliad is fantastic, even if the translation Jason is using is outdated."

"The Iliad is fantastic," Babs cut in, her voice even and calm, neutralizing Jason’s cynicism before it could fully deploy. "It’s all about the fallout of pride and the cost of being a hero."

Bruce, however, seized on the topic with nervous energy. "We’re looking forward to enrolling Percy in a better curriculum that’ll help with his dyslexia and ADHD this spring. Gotham Academy, perhaps. Or the private tutor we used for Jason—"

"See, that's where you went wrong, B," Dick interjected smoothly, laying down his fork. The smile was gone, replaced by a careful sincerity. "You're trying to put a square peg in a square hole. The kid was living on instinct and observation for a year. Throwing him into a repressed prep school is just going to teach him better places to hide his resentment. You should keep him somewhere messy. Somewhere he can learn to trust the ground beneath his feet, not the marble."

The air pressure dropped. Bruce’s jaw tightened. "I appreciate your insight, Dick. But I am fully capable of making educational and lifestyle decisions for my son."

"Oh, I know you are," Dick said, his tone still light, yet razor-sharp. "You're fantastic at raising sons, Bruce. Just look at the results."

Jason winced, sinking slightly into his chair. That was the line. The unsaid tension between them wasn't just about Dick leaving; it was about Jason's trajectory. Jason was getting colder, more disciplined under Bruce's demanding tutelage in everything from fencing to multiple languages, and Dick clearly saw Bruce shaping Jason into a reflection of his own rigid, controlling persona.

Babs stepped in, her calm voice a lifeline. "You know, Dick, I think the important thing is that Percy likes the new environment, even if it's overwhelming. Percy, what's been the weirdest part about living here?"

Percy looked at her, realizing she was deliberately drawing the fire away from Bruce and Dick. He felt a flash of gratitude. "The soap," he blurted out, without thinking.

Everyone paused, even Alfred, who was delicately pouring water.

"The soap?" Bruce asked, confused.

"Yeah. Everything smells expensive," Percy explained, feeling suddenly shy. "The water’s too hot, the towels are too soft, and the soap smells like flowers and cinnamon. And I know it’s crazy, but when I was on the streets, the worst part was always the smell. Of me. Of the garbage. Of the oil." He pointed vaguely toward Dick and Bruce. "You guys always smell like this, like… clean chemicals. And it’s nice, but it feels like a lie."

Dick immediately burst out laughing, a genuine, delighted sound that filled the room. "He’s right! That's the best summary of Wayne life I’ve ever heard. Bruce, he sees right through the cologne, man!"

Even Bruce managed a strained half-smile. "I assure you, Percy, it is not a lie. It's just a better soap budget."

Babs leaned toward Percy, her eyes warm. "It stops feeling like a lie eventually, Percy. It just becomes background noise. And trust me, we all appreciate smelling like 'clean chemicals' after a particularly demanding shift."

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

The conversation shifted to safer, more performative topics: Bruce discussing a new wing for the Gotham Children’s Hospital, Dick talking about his new Blüdhaven apartment (which Bruce pointedly asked if he could afford), and Jason complaining about the central thesis of a recent philosophy book that he claimed missed the fundamental ethical conflict of the post-structuralist movement.

But the tension between Dick and Bruce was a palpable thing, a low-frequency hum under the surface of the polite chatter.

"So, Jason, how's the extracurricular training going?" Dick asked, pushing the topic directly toward the elephant.

"Fine. We’re getting more efficient," Jason said, puffing out his chest. "We’ve cut the average time to corner a perp by nearly . Bruce says I have a natural aptitude for… aggressive containment strategies."

Dick’s blue eyes hardened, losing all trace of their earlier amusement. "Aggressive containment. Right. And when was the last time Bruce made you sit through a three-hour de-escalation seminar with the security detail? Or focus on humanitarian rather than physical conditioning?" 

The words are delicate, a carefully formed frame for Percy’s eyes to see through. He knew they were hiding something. He was also hiding something. Something worse than whatever secret they could conjure up because he was crazy. They took in a kid who belonged in an Arkham cell and-  He hoped one day they’d trust him enough to tell him. To let him in on that part of the family. 

"De-escalation is boring, Dick," Jason scoffed, pulling Percy from his thoughts. "And the only person who works a case without a punch is Alfred. We're the heavy hitters, the protectors of… WE"

"You shouldn't need to be the heavy hitters, Jay," Dick insisted, leaning forward. "That was always the point—to be the bright counterpoint to Bruce's cynicism. The warning, not the force. Bruce taught me that the best fight is the one you avoid."

"He doesn't teach that anymore," Jason muttered, looking down at his risotto.

Bruce, who had been sipping his wine, finally intervened, his voice quiet but sharp. "Jason, that is enough. Dick, Jason is learning a different skill set. He operates based on a different methodology. One that is better suited to protecting Wayne Enterprises’ interests in Gotham's current climate."

"Different methodology, or different moral compass, Bruce?" Dick challenged, pushing his plate away. "You're letting him run too hot. He's fourteen. You're giving him the tools of…” a glance at Percy, “corporate warfare, not the tools of social justice. Remember what happened to me when I was his age? I ran away. You're doing the exact same thing to him, only this time you’re encouraging the impulse to cold, clinical violence in the boardroom."

"I am training him," Bruce snapped, the control finally cracking. "He has an innate rage that needs direction. I am giving him discipline and focus that will save his life one day."

"You're giving him permission to be ruthless!" Dick stood up, pushing his chair back with a loud scrape. "You’re using his trauma—the street in him—to make him faster and angrier in business. You found me when I was grieving and taught me the value of human connection. You found Jason when he was furious and taught him the value of absolute control and aggression. And now you’ve got Percy here, another abandoned kid, another ticking clock. What are you going to teach him, Bruce?"

Percy flinched, feeling suddenly exposed. Dick’s words were cruel, meant to wound Bruce, but they resonated with one of Percy's deepest fears: being turned into a tool by a powerful adult. And Percy-he had never felt more excluded from this household- this family- than he did now. 

"That is wildly unfair, Dick," Babs said, her voice firm, the first time she had openly sided against Dick.

"Babs, don't," Dick warned, his gaze fixed on Bruce. "I'm not doing this to hurt him. I'm doing this to save Jay from him. Look at the kid, Bruce. Look at the three of us. You collect broken things and try to fix them by turning them into unfeeling…” Another pause and glance, “corporate assets."

Bruce finally rose, his towering presence casting a shadow over the table. "You left, Dick. You abandoned this family because you decided you knew better. Don't come back here to lecture me on my parenting decisions."

"I left because you were suffocating me with your grief! And you’re doing it again!" Dick yelled.

Jason, who had been listening with his head down, suddenly slammed his fist on the table. "Stop it! Just stop! Dick, leave! Bruce, stop being Bruce! It's supposed to be dinner! You are all being absolute asses to Percy right now! To me!

The silence that followed was heavy and awful. Jason looked horrified by his own outburst.

Dick stared at Jason for a long moment, the anger draining away, replaced by a deep, weary sadness. He saw the genuine distress in his younger brother's eyes.

"You're right, Jay," Dick said softly, running a hand over his face. "My bad. I'm sorry, Percy. Welcome to the family. It's usually like this, just louder."

He didn't look at Bruce again. Dick turned to Babs. "Babs, are you ready? I need to get back to Blüdhaven before I say something I really regret."

"I'm coming," Babs replied, giving Dick's arm a reassuring squeeze. She then turned her attention to Percy and Jason. "Jason, you clean up. Percy, why don't you come with me and Dick for a moment? Let the adults have their quiet."

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

Babs led Percy and Dick into a massive, as all the rooms were, rarely-used library adjacent to the dining room. The room smelled blessedly of old paper and leather, a scent of established quiet.

Dick was already pacing, muttering about Bruce's "emotional constipation" and "inability to see people as people."

Babs, meanwhile, settled gracefully into a high-backed wooden chair, her posture impeccable and her movement fluid.

"Percy, ignore them," Babs said, meeting his eyes over the rim of her glasses. "They've been doing this dance for five years. It’s their way of communicating. They love each other, they just express it by trying to prove the other one is wrong."

Percy slumped onto a massive velvet armchair. "Is it always like that?"

"Sadly, mostly," she admitted, smiling sadly. "That's what happens when people with highly demanding, stressful careers try to have a family. But that's where people like you and Jason come in. You're the anchors. You force them to be just Bruce and just Dick, if only for five minutes at a time."

Dick stopped pacing and leaned against a bookshelf, his energy still radiating anxiety. "Babs, don't tell the kid he's a prop for our emotional development."

"I'm telling him the truth, Dick," Babs countered gently. "You and Bruce, you need each other, but you can't be in the same city for more than a week without combusting. I, on the other hand, am completely neutral. I'm the designated listener." She looked at Percy. "So, let's try this again. What's the best part of living here?"

Percy thought hard. The soap wasn't it. The silence was overwhelming. The fighting was awful.

"Jason," he said, simply. "He gets it. He doesn't try to make me talk about stuff. He just... throws me a book and tells me to stop being a zombie. And he reads to me."

Dick softened instantly. "Yeah, Jay's good people. Best of the bunch. You look out for him, Perce. He needs a wingman in the house, especially right now." Dick glanced back toward the dining room. "He’s doing too much. He's trying to be the perfect, ruthless apprentice so Bruce doesn't push him away. He’s going to break himself."

"And that’s why you’re here, Dick," Babs said. "You're his safety valve. Your presence reminds Bruce that there's a different way to do this. A softer way to lead...” their hesitation isn’t missed on Percy, the careful calculation of every word, “a company and a life. Even if Bruce can't hear you right now."

Percy looked at Dick, seeing not the arrogant older brother, but a man desperately trying to protect his sibling from a life he knew too well.

"My…step-dad…he called me a mistake," Percy whispered, showing the wound to the vulnerable, bleeding man before him. “I’m scared that…that one day Bruce will too. That in the end all I’ll be is a mistake.”

Dick immediately pushed off the shelf and knelt beside Percy's chair. His intense blue eyes—radiating warmth rather than cold analysis—focused entirely on Percy.

"Hey, listen to me," Dick said seriously. "Bruce sees three things in this world: the mission, the problem, and the solution. He doesn't see people. When I said that, I was talking to Bruce, not about you. You are not a mistake. You're a lifeline. You and Jason are the only two people who can make Bruce take off the…the tie, even for a second, and just be Bruce Wayne, the awkward, terrible dad who cares too much about manners. Don't ever forget that."

Dick stood up, the intensity still clinging to him. He looked at Babs. "I'm going. Keep an eye on him, Babs."

"Always," Babs promised.

Dick gave Percy a quick, decisive salute and strode out of the library, the energy he left behind feeling almost heavy, like a dropped shield.

Babs waited until the front door slammed, signaling Dick's dramatic exit. Then, she walked over to Percy.

"He's right, you know," she said, her voice dropping lower, a conspiratorial sound. "Jason and Dick, they're loud. They fight on the surface. Bruce, he fights deep inside. But they all fight for the same thing: to protect the people they choose to let into their world. That's why they do what they do."

"Do you fight?" Percy asked, looking at her.

Babs smiled, a genuine, brilliant flash of warmth that made her look like the sun breaking over a dark city. "I'm the one with the intelligence, Percy. I'm the one who knows how every single person in this city is connected, from the mayor’s office to the smallest tech startup. I fight by knowing everything. Knowledge is the best way to win."

She leaned in, her gaze serious and focused. "You're worried about Bruce thinking you’re a mistake. Don't be. Bruce needs you to be Percy. He needs you to be the kid who asks about the soap and the Iliad. You keep them grounded. If you decide to stay, you're not a student or a corporate pawn. You're the anchor. You keep the boat from drifting too far out to the cold sea."

"What if I leave?" Percy asked, the question finally escaping his lips. "What if I can't handle it?"

Babs's expression didn't change, there was no pity, only understanding. "Then you leave. And we'll be sad, but we'll understand. You owe us nothing. But if you leave now, you miss the best part. And the best part is the fight to stay together."

She tapped her glasses. "I have to get back to Blüdhaven with Dick—he needs me to stop him from doing something incredibly stupid to protest Bruce's lecture. But I'll be back in two weeks. And you better continue that Iliad with Jason so you can tell me which chapter his theory on fight choreography is completely wrong about. Deal?"

"Deal," Percy said, his voice surprisingly steady. He realized that Babs, with her kind eyes and sharp mind, was the first real adult he had met in this strange, new life who treated him like an equal, not a project.

"Good. Now, go find Jason. Tell him he did a good job sticking up for you, but that he still owes me a new copy of The Odyssey." She smiled. "Welcome to the Wayne family, Percy. It's a crazy, complicated mess, but it's a family."

Percy pushed himself out of the deep chair. He felt the residual tension of the fight, but beneath it, he felt something else: the solid foundation of people who argued because they cared. He was still overwhelmed, but for the first time since leaving the streets, he was not alone. The Wayne family was broken, loud, and constantly on the verge of implosion, but it was real. And in Gotham, real counted for everything. For Percy, reality was what he wanted the most.

He walked out of the library, the scent of expensive paper and old leather following him. He went straight to the dining room to find Jason. He was ready for the argument. The one about the Iliad. And maybe, just maybe, the one about the donuts.

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⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰ 

July 22, 2002

Gotham, Wayne Tower Grand Ballroom

5 Months 7 days since becoming a ward of Bruce Wayne

9:36

The lights were a blinding, impossible constellation. They bounced off diamonds and polished marble, fractured through heavy crystal glasses, and reflected in the hundreds of slick surfaces covering the Grand Ballroom of Wayne Tower. If Percy thought the dining room at the Manor was formal, this was the entire country of Formal on parade.

The noise wasn’t a roar; it was a high-pitched, relentless chatter, the sound of expensive people talking over each other about oil futures and tax shelters. Percy, nine years old, felt like a fish trapped in a crystal bowl, every movement magnified, every reaction scrutinized.

He was wearing a miniature tuxedo that felt stiff and suffocating, and the shirt collar was so tightly starched he was certain it would slice his throat if he bent his head too fast.

"Breathe, Perce," Jason whispered, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him just inside the main archway. Jason, wearing a matching tux, looked utterly miserable, his dark hair carefully slicked back. He hadn't stopped fidgeting with his cufflink since they left the car.

"I can’t," Percy whispered back, gripping Jason’s sleeve. "I think the air smells like money and plastic. It's too shiny, Jay. It feels like a trap."

Jason smirked, a flash of his street-kid cynicism breaking through the pristine facade. "It is a trap, Perce. It's how Bruce establishes dominance. This isn't a party; it's a shareholders meeting with better catering. Every handshake is a contract. Every smile is a negotiation. You're the newest asset, kid. Just stand still and look suitably lost and adorable."

Bruce, standing slightly ahead of them, turned back, his expression severe but practiced. "Jason. Percy. Remember our briefing. Shoulders back. Hands clasped lightly behind you. When you are addressed, answer with a concise statement and refer all further inquiries back to me or Alfred. This is about projecting stability."

He looked specifically at Percy. "Smile, Percy. Not too wide. Just the hint of gratitude. You've been given a tremendous opportunity, and Gotham expects to see its newest son appreciate it."

Percy nodded stiffly, forcing his lips upward. He felt his anxiety rising. The words on the small, folded program Bruce had tried to make him read earlier had swum across the page like frantic, fleeing fish.

Jason leaned closer to Percy's ear, his voice barely audible above the din. "It is the east, and Juliet is the sun," he murmured, quoting Shakespeare. "Just focus on the rhythm, Perce. Block out the noise."

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

The introductions began almost immediately. Bruce, a towering figure of composure and power, led them into the crowd.

"Alaxander, my dear fellow, always a pleasure. I want you to meet my youngest son, Percy Jackson-Wayne," Bruce announced, placing a hand on Percy's shoulder—a touch that felt more like a steadying clamp than a loving gesture.

Percy felt the weight of a thick, older man's gaze. The man, Alexander, had eyes that assessed Percy like a piece of art at auction.

"Bruce! How many times must I tell you to call me Alex. A pleasure to meet you, young Percy. Bruce tells me you are a boy of considerable spirit." Alexander’s handshake was dry and too firm.

"Thank you, sir," Percy managed, pulling his hand back quickly.

"And Bruce, a street find, isn't that right?" Alexander continued, smiling tightly at Bruce. "Very admirable. A philanthropic investment. You always did know how to play the long game, old friend."

The two continued talking for a bit, Percy zoning them out as he stood there awkwardly and unsure of what to do.

As Bruce quickly steered them away, "Alexander's interests are purely in real estate acquisitions, Percy," Bruce explained, smoothly, his tone ice cold. "He sees everything in terms of valuation and risk, including people."

Jason scoffed under his breath. "See? Corporate violence. It's all about how much damage you can inflict while wearing white gloves."

"Are they all like that?" Percy asked, his throat tight.

"Worse," Jason said. "The women are the worst. They look beautiful, but they're all predators. They want to know if you're going to compete with their own miserable kids for the inheritance. Just pretend you’re watching a nature documentary about hyenas."

Jason paused, pulling his flask (which Percy knew contained ginger ale, not alcohol) from an inside pocket for a quick swig. He turned his attention to a small, heavy book he'd tucked under his arm—a well-worn copy of Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground. He opened it to a marked page.

"Remember that line we read yesterday?" Jason whispered, shielding the page from the lights. "'If one is convinced that he is weak, then he is strong.' That’s your strategy tonight, Perce. Let them think you're weak, let them think you're just the weak, grateful, street rat B picked up. That way, they underestimate you. That’s how we survive Bruce's 'aggressive containment' of his personal life."

Suddenly, a voice cut through the seriousness.

"Stop polluting the poor child with Russian nihilism, Jay! He's nine! He needs ice cream, not existential dread!"

Babs Gordon approached them, looking dazzling in a deep emerald dress. She moved easily through the crowd, radiating confidence and warmth. She stopped the moment she saw Percy's overwhelmed face.

"Okay, break time," Babs declared, taking Percy's hand and ignoring Bruce's visible irritation. "Bruce, he's nine. He needs to breathe. Jason, put away the tragedy. Percy, come with me. We're going to find the sweet table."

Babs led them through a less crowded corridor.

"Sorry about that, Perce," Babs said, her voice dropping. "Gala rules: Bruce is trying to show Gotham he’s a stable, nurturing figure, which means you two have to be perfect. And Bruce doesn't do 'nurturing' well; he does 'tactical deployment' well."

"He keeps telling Jason he needs to learn how to leverage his background for maximum impact," Percy muttered, recalling a recent lesson Bruce had given Jason about dealing with a hostile corporate board.

"Ugh. I wish Bruce would remember that trauma isn't a 'leveragable asset'," Babs said, shaking her head. "Anyway, Jason, what’s the intel on the catering?"

"The appetizers are all smoked salmon or some weird celery foam," Jason reported immediately, slipping back into his familiar, mission-focused demeanor. "But the third table in the back corner, near the exit, is the dessert station. Alfred’s influence: it has genuine, homemade petit fours. A strategic retreat is required."

Babs smiled brightly. "Perfect. See, Percy? Jason is learning essential strategic withdrawal skills, which is far more useful than whatever Bruce is teaching him about 'aggressive containment' in the boardroom." Percy giggles at their antics. Babs had been coming by the Manor more and more after that Dinner and would read to Percy too. Although her book picks differed largely from Jason's.

As they reached the relative safety of the dessert table, Percy's breath hitched. The entire experience—the staring, the noise, the pressure—suddenly felt crushing. He realized he was surrounded by hundreds of adults, and they all looked like the kind of people who would call the cops on a kid sleeping under a bridge. He felt the cold, hard weight of the city pressing down on him.

He felt dizzy. The lights seemed to spin.

"The room is shaking," Percy whispered, his eyes wide.

Babs and Jason immediately exchanged a look. They had seen this before. It wasn't the room; it was Percy's brain struggling to process the visual and emotional chaos.

Jason immediately stepped in front of Percy, shielding him from the view of the main ballroom. "It's the lights, Perce. Too bright. Just look at the book."

Jason held up his Dostoevsky, not caring who saw them huddled in a corner. He didn't ask Percy to read; he just started reciting loudly enough for Percy to focus on the sound, ignoring the swirling visual nightmare.

"It's just the old world trying to catch you, kid. But we're safe here," Jason murmured, his voice a steady, familiar anchor against the storm of the Gala. "Now, look at these cakes. We're going to establish a perimeter, secure the goods, and execute the perfect infiltration back to the car. Mission: one tray of sugar at a time."

Percy took a slow, deep breath, anchoring himself to the steady sound of Jason's voice and the promise of a quiet car ride home. He was a piece on Bruce's chessboard tonight, but he had an ally. He had Jason, and that was enough to survive the night. It was enough to survive.

“I’m still not a kid.”  He was smiling though

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⊱✿⊰ 3rd Person POV ⊱✿⊰ 

October 7, 2002

Gotham City Aquarium

7 months 22 Days Since Percy was adopted

10:28 AM

The decision to visit the Gotham City Aquarium was not born of spontaneous fun; it was a desperate, calculated move by Bruce Wayne to address a statistical anomaly. Percy, at ten, had taken to drawing exclusively marine life—but his recent sketches had become increasingly elaborate and morbid. They weren't just fish; they were fish with tiny, furrowed brows, sometimes with tear-like bubbles rising from their eyes, often accompanied by jagged, cartoonish speech bubbles containing the word “Misery.”

Bruce was worried about the psychological implications.

“It’s an educational opportunity,” Bruce had told Jason, attempting to sell the trip.

Jason, at fourteen, was deeply entrenched in the theatrical phase of teenage intellectual superiority. He was currently reading an obscure translation of a Roman Stoic on the futility of human ambition and made a noise that sounded like a rusty hinge.

“It's basically a giant, overpriced seafood display, Bruce," Jason corrected, not looking up. "The glass is probably just magnifying how bored they are. If you want to educate Percy, explain that fish living in Gotham water is the true horror show.”

“Percy is sensitive,” Bruce countered, adjusting his cuff links with the precision of a man preparing for a hostile takeover, not a petting zoo. “And you, Jason, are why he knows words like ‘existential dread.’ If we don’t get him some positive marine exposure soon, I fear his next artistic phase will involve fish writing manifestos.”

Bruce sighed. "Just try to look slightly engaged, Jay."

"My engagement levels are strictly reserved for the existential horror of the gift shop prices," Jason muttered, returning to his obscure text.

Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose, contemplating if it was too late to invest in private tutors for all of them. He had explicitly banned George Orwell’s darker works from the Manor’s common reading areas, yet somehow, Jason had ensured that ten-year-old Percy had absorbed the core tenets of Animal Farm with the intensity of a zealot.

The drive was quiet. Percy, vibrating with genuine, unspoiled joy, kept his forehead glued to the window, watching the distant sea. His enthusiasm was so pure, so bright, that Bruce actually felt a small surge of paternal relief. Maybe this wasn't a terrible idea after all.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

The Gotham City Aquarium was state-of-the-art—clean, well-funded, and featuring stunning panoramic tanks. They moved through the initial exhibits dedicated to local coastal life. Percy was captivated, his joy palpable. Jason trailed behind, attempting to look bored but secretly cataloging the various types of anemones.

It wasn’t until they reached the massive, tropical deep-sea tank, a three-story wall of shimmering blue, that Percy’s mood took a sharp, unsettling turn. The tank contained a dizzying array of neon life—parrotfish, moorish idols, and a giant, magnificent, but clearly listless, Napoleon wrasse.

Percy pressed his hands against the glass, the joy draining from his face, replaced by a profound, sympathetic scowl.

“Something wrong, Perce?” Jason asked, noticing Percy’s sudden dip in mood.

“The fish feel sad,” Percy said, his voice dropping to a low, intense murmur that seemed to hum with the deep bass tones of the tank’s water filtration system.

Jason glanced at the wrasse. It was hovering near a painted coral outcrop, looking exactly like a large fish resting. “No, they look the same as fish always do. You know. Fishy.”

“I mean it. Can’t you feel how sad they are? They want to escape,” Percy insisted, his eyes taking on a fierce, unnerving glow that was almost the same color as the deepest blue in the tank. He wasn't looking for sadness; he was receiving it, a raw, desperate signal he couldn't filter out.

“The aquarium takes good care of all the fish here. This is conservation,” Bruce said, stepping up and placing a comforting but firm hand on Percy’s shoulder. “I’m sure the fish feel very happy, Perce. They have all the food and safety they need.”

Percy shook his head vehemently, his damp hair sticking slightly to his forehead. “They want to be free. Bruce, they are imprisoned. They are waiting for the revolution. Jason said all creatures deserve liberty!”

Jason bit back a laugh, realizing the unintended consequence of his recent literary mentorship. “I said that metaphorically, Perce. It was an allegory about Stalinism. I didn’t mean, like, literally set the Moorish Idols free.”

“But the principles still apply!” Percy argued, his small fists clenching. He turned back to the tank, silently cataloging its prisoners.

Bruce, sensing an escalating philosophical crisis about to erupt into a temper tantrum, quickly deployed the one creature guaranteed to distract Percy: the dolphin.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

They spent a restorative half hour at the dolphin exhibit, watching the creatures leap and play. Percy was visibly calmed, the overwhelming despair signal from the smaller tanks temporarily muted by the presence of these stronger, seemingly happier aquatic residents.

But the reprieve was short-lived.

They were now near the exit and, inevitably, the gift shop. Percy, who had a bladder capacity slightly larger than a house cat, announced he needed the restroom.

“Alright, Perce. Jason, go with him,” Bruce instructed, already pulling out his wallet to buy Alfred a ridiculously expensive marine-themed knick-knack.

Percy shook his head with suspicious earnestness. “I have to go alone. Very serious bathroom emergency.” He sped away, disappearing into the men's room near the children’s play area.

Jason waited exactly thirty seconds before realizing the philosophical gravity of a sudden, solo trip to the restroom following a diatribe on liberty. He decided to follow. He found the restroom empty.

Jason exited immediately, scanning the busy gift shop. His gaze landed on a quiet, brightly lit corner near the register where a series of small, five-gallon "starter tanks" housed cheap, common fish for sale. They looked genuinely inadequate—dirty gravel, cloudy water.

And there was Percy.

Percy was standing perfectly still, his small body partially obscuring one of the small tanks. He was hunched slightly, and a horrifying, wet shloop-slosh sound was emanating from the pocket of his cargo shorts. A dark, rapidly spreading water stain bloomed on the beige fabric.

Jason choked on air, simultaneously registering the sheer idiocy and the revolutionary determination of the act. Before he could intervene, two aquarium security guards—Bob and Kevin, according to the name tags—approached, having clearly followed the trail of tiny, dripping puddles.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

Bruce, having just paid for a porcelain lobster figurine, heard the distinct sound of raised, authoritative voices and the familiar, high-pitched shout of his youngest.

“Bruce!” Percy cried, his voice ringing with defiant anger as the two guards tried to gently steer him away from the merchandise.

Bruce rushed over, Jason trailing behind, mouth agape and silently filming the entire scene in his mind for later blackmail purposes.

Percy was thoroughly soaked from the waist down, the water from his pockets having thoroughly saturated his shorts and shoes. He looked like a drowned kitten that had achieved self-actualization.

“Gentlemen, please, I’m certain this was some kind of misunderstanding—” Bruce began, instantly deploying his ‘Brucie Wayne, Idiot Philanthropist’ persona. His voice became high, charming, and slightly slurry.

“We caught him trying to steal the fish, Mr. Wayne,” Bob the security guard explained flatly, gesturing to Percy’s visibly sagging, sloshing pocket. “He had three small tetras and a handful of gravel in his shorts.”

“I wasn’t trying to steal them, I was trying to free them! They deserve better than to be trapped here!” Percy protested, trying to pull away from the guard.

“Percy, enough,” Bruce said, dropping the Brucie voice to look his son sternly in the eye. “I’m very sorry about him.” He tried to signal his distress to the guards with a strained, conspiratorial wink.

“He was found stuffing live fish into his pockets, Mr. Wayne,” Kevin clarified, looking tired of his job.

Percy squared his shoulders, water dripping onto the floor. “How do you have the audacity to consider yourself an American if this is how you treat those without power? Our nation’s motto is life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, but if your treatment of these fish is any indication, then you’ve never heard of any of those concepts before!” Percy shouted, seething. “What makes you think you have the right to trap these fish inside glass boxes and put them on display as if their entire life’s purpose is simply to exist for a scientist to study and a common man to marvel at! The miserable condition of these animals is a crime, and man's tyranny must be resisted! The only thing man has over them is the power to oppress!”

“Excuse me?” Bob the security guard said, blinking slowly at the nine-year-old’s furious eloquence.

“You are not excused—not by me, and not for your crimes against the fact that fishes have the right to be free like everyone else born in America!” Percy exclaimed, his voice cracking with intensity.

Bruce froze, the revolutionary rhetoric now unmistakable. He turned his head slowly, his eyes narrowed into a razor-thin glare, fixing on Jason, who was trying to look nonchalant while aggressively smelling the top of a stuffed sea otter.

“I didn't know reading him Animal Farm would turn him into this!” Jason demanded, abandoning the otter and pointing dramatically at Percy, who was now being carefully restrained by the two bewildered guards.

“Why were you reading George Orwell to your ten-year-old brother in the first place?!” Bruce asked, the sound low, strained, and filled with parental despair. And just despair. “Why have you read Animal Farm, Jason?!”

Jason adjusted his glasses with an air of immense condescension. “It has advanced themes and the metaphor is highly accessible for demonstrating—”

“It is clearly too accessible!” Bruce cut him off, spinning back to the guards before he spontaneously combusted. He returned to his checkbook, scrawling furiously.

“Gentlemen, my deepest apologies,” Bruce said, handing over the check—easily enough to buy a dozen new retail tanks and several security upgrades. “My son has clearly internalized the dangers of totalitarianism far too literally. He will be seeing a therapist about his political fervor and we will, naturally, replace the fish and the gravel.”

Bruce waited until Bob and Kevin were happily distracted by the sheer number of zeroes on the check, then scooped Percy up under one arm.

“The power to oppress, Perce, and the power to write the very large checks to keep your revolutionary escapades out of the press,” Bruce muttered, hauling his soggy, still-splashing son toward the exit, ignoring Jason’s helpless giggles trailing behind them.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

Bruce tossed Percy into the back of the car and waited until he was miles away from the aquarium before speaking. Jason was in the passenger seat, occasionally snorting as he pictured the wet lump in Percy's pocket.

“Percy, my revolutionary philosopher,” Bruce said, his voice a weary monotone. “A pocket is not a river. A pocket is a wet, cramped, cotton death trap. You are not granting them liberty; you are granting them a tragic, pocket-sized fate. You need to think about the logistics of your ideals.”

“They were going to die anyway!” Percy insisted, still defiant despite the damp discomfort. “They’re going to be sold and put in another glass box and die. Like Boxer. They feel sad. I know they do.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, conceding the emotional point, if not the ethical execution. "Justice must be executed with thought, Perce. Not just emotion. And certainly not with non-waterproof shorts."

He looked in the rearview mirror, seeing the resolved fury in his son's eyes. Percy had failed, but his mission had been morally pure in his own mind. He had applied the principles of the most powerful book he'd ever read and failed only because of poor tactical equipment.

Bruce banned all future trips to any animal-related exhibit. The memory of the soggy, self-appointed marine liberationist, quoting Orwell to two minimum-wage security guards, was enough to last a lifetime.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

Back at the manor, Bruce had to deal with Alfred, who treated the "aquatic pocket smuggling" incident with a mixture of dry amusement and professional disappointment.

Bruce watched Percy retreat to his room, only to emerge an hour later, clean and dry, immediately starting a new sketch. Not the tropical fish, but abstract outlines of wave patterns and long, deep-sea trenches—the real home of the creatures. The incident had passed, but the conviction had settled. He still had a lot to learn about raising a boy who felt so much for the world's voiceless inhabitants. He also made a mental note to screen Jason's reading material for concepts that could be weaponized by a small child.

The tiny, damp patches on Percy’s shorts, now sitting in the laundry hamper, were a perfect monument to the day’s failed revolution. The first, and certainly not the last, time Percy would take a stand for something he loved, regardless of the logic or the consequences.

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⊱✿⊰ Dick POV ⊱✿⊰

October 22, 2002

Wayne Manor

8 Months & 6 Days Since Percy was adopted

6:54 PM

I showed up at the Manor on a Tuesday evening, two weeks after Bruce had sent the terse, three-line text about the Aquarium Incident and the resulting fine. I was ostensibly there to drop off a new encryption chip for the Cave, but really, I was there for damage control and, more importantly, to check on the latest addition to the chaotic Wayne household, Percy.

I found the kid alone in the massive, underutilized sunroom. He was sitting on the floor, intensely drawing a picture with crayons—a swirling, chaotic battle between a trident-wielding figure and a massive, distressed-looking shark. He was wearing an oversized hoodie that probably belonged to me at some point.

“Hey, Perce,” I said, trying for my most casual, older-brother-who-is-not-Batman voice. I sat down cross-legged, a safe distance away. “Whatcha working on? Looks intense.”

He glanced up, those startlingly sharp, blue-green eyes assessing me quickly. “It’s a rescue,” he said, the word delivered with the seriousness of a seasoned operative. “The shark was sad. You could tell. He kept hitting his nose on the fake rock wall. It was too close to the filter. The guards were too slow, too.” He didn’t elaborate, just went back to coloring the ocean with deep, moody shades of cerulean.

“Right. Good work.” I waited a beat. This was harder than fighting Killer Croc. At least Croc usually told you what he wanted. “I heard about the aquarium trip. That was… a lot of work.”

Percy stopped coloring. “They were miserable. The tank was too small, and the fake plants were cheap. If you’re going to spend that much money on water machines, you should make the fish comfortable.”

I tried to argue the point, but the pure, logical conviction in his voice stopped me. He truly believed he was observing a failure of civic engineering. This kid was a trip.

“Look, I know I haven’t been around much since you moved in,” I started, picking at a loose thread on my jeans. “Jason tells me you guys have been reading a lot of… complicated stories about farms.”

Percy smiled, a fleeting, genuine lift of his mouth. “Jason is the best. He knows when I can’t sleep. He reads me things that are for old people, but I can still understand. He told me that book was really about rules, not just pigs. I knew that.”

A familiar, ugly twist of guilt tightened in my chest. Jason, the 14-year-old rebel, was stepping up as the older brother while I, the actual eldest, was still operating on Gotham time, dropping in once a month.

“He is great,” I agreed. “I wish I could be around to do stuff like that, too. I really want to be a good big brother to you, Percy.”

He finally put the crayon down and looked directly at me. His gaze was disconcertingly sincere. “It’s okay, Dick. You’re busy with your job. It doesn’t matter if you’re here all the time. Jason and Alfred are here all the time. It’s enough. What matters is that when you are here, you care about what’s happening. You’re here now.”

His simple statement felt like a strategic punch. The weight of his validation—or lack thereof—was crushing. Show up when it matters. I had to earn my spot.

“You’re right,” I managed, standing up. “I’ll see you soon, Perce. And I’ll care.”

I left that day feeling like a total failure, but Percy’s words were a compass point. I wasn’t going to try to replace Jason’s consistent presence; I was just going to make sure that my infrequent appearances held genuine meaning.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

I started showing up regularly. Not every day—I still had Blüdhaven—but every ten days or so. My missions were poorly conceived. I was still trying too hard.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·|

October 31, 2002

Wayne Manor

8 Months & 15 Days Since Percy was adopted

7:30 PM

The scent of dry leaves and artificial fog hung in the cool air. Halloween at Wayne Manor was an event. Bruce, naturally, went for subtle lighting and strategically placed cobwebs that looked authentic enough to have been spun by a mutant spider.

Percy, however, didn’t grasp the concept of "costume."

"It's a bad idea," he stated from the top of the sweeping marble staircase, dressed in his everyday, slightly too-large clothes. "A costume is a disguise. Disguises are supposed to hide you. If everyone is wearing a costume, no one is hidden. It’s a waste of time."

Jason, sporting a surprisingly effective, if overly gory, zombie football player ensemble, threw an arm around Percy's shoulders. "It's fun, Perce! You get free candy!"

"I have money for candy," Percy countered, his blue-green eyes narrowed in analysis. "Asking strangers for food is too risky. The reward is low."

I walked over, finally dressed myself. I’d settled on a classic, low-effort Zorro costume—cape, mask, rapier. I figured the familiarity would be soothing. "He's got a point, Jase. The social exchange is weird."

"Oh, come on, Dick. You look like a pirate who forgot his ship. You could at least pretend to like people." Jason gave up on trying to convince Percy and joined Bruce at the door, who was handing out full-sized chocolate bars with a stoic dedication that only Batman could achieve.

I knelt down in front of Percy. "Look, I know the logic is broken. But this is a family thing. It’s not about logic. It’s about being part of the noise. You don’t have to wear a costume. But how about you wear that old blue t-shirt? That's technically like a uniform."

Percy looked down at the hand-me-down Blüdhaven Police Academy t-shirt he had on. "It doesn't tell people if I'm a threat."

"It tells people you like blue, and that makes you an asset to my happiness," I said with a genuine smile. "Come on. We'll stick to the yard. We'll figure out the best streets and see who has the most candy. It'll be a Logistics Test."

That got him. "Testing?"

"Absolutely. We'll find the most efficient path, the houses that are spending the most money, and spot anything that could be a hazard."

Percy’s posture straightened. "Okay. I'll take charge of looking at the decorations to see if they are going to fall down."

We spent the next hour walking the perimeter of the property. While Jason and a small group of neighborhood kids were shrieking over spiderwebs and giant inflatable ghosts, Percy was deadly serious.

"The plastic skeleton is weak," he murmured, pointing to a decoration hanging limply from a tree. "It would break if you pulled on it hard. And the smoke machine is too obvious. It gives away where you are."

I didn't correct him. I just followed his lead, occasionally offering a nod or a low "Understood." It wasn't the traditional big-brother-taking-little-brother-trick-or-treating experience, but it was our experience. He was engaged, focused, and talking to me. That was the victory.

When we got back inside, Bruce had already dismissed the trick-or-treaters. Percy dumped his small plastic pumpkin on the kitchen island.

"The candy was fine," he announced. "But the delivery plan is bad. You could get to everything faster if you skipped the three houses that only gave out little pieces."

Jason, peeling off his gruesome mask, snagged a candy bar. "It's not about being fast, Perce. It's about being in the spirit."

Percy tilted his head. "The spirit of moving slowly?"

"The spirit of being a kid," I corrected gently. I put a hand on Percy’s shoulder. "Thanks for running security for me, Perce. You're the best Logistics Expert I know."

He shrugged, but a faint, pleased color touched his cheeks. I noticed he didn’t eat any of the candy, but he did keep the pumpkin—a small, orange symbol of the night’s strange, shared success.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

I showed up with a massive, tactical board game about medieval trade routes. Jason was upstairs doing homework, and Alfred was polishing silver. I challenged Percy to a game.

“So, you control the supply chain through Bruges,” I explained, moving a tiny wooden ship, trying to keep my enthusiasm high.

Percy stared blankly at the board, looking immensely bored. “Why are we pretending this is a good plan? You could get everything to the castle way faster. This is painfully slow. I thought you guys were smart about moving things.”

He then flipped over the board because he didn't see the point in continuing a game with “bad physics and worse boat-moving.” The game lasted ten minutes. He went back to drawing. I felt like an overly earnest youth counselor who'd been graded harshly by a nine-year-old genius.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·|

I decided to introduce him to a classic of my childhood: Star Wars: A New Hope. I figured a high-energy space adventure was a safe bet. I got the popcorn, the blankets, and the perfect mood lighting.

Five minutes into the opening sequence, Percy frowned. “Why are those guards in white armor missing every shot? They’re standing right there! They should be hitting everything. Their aiming protocols are terrible. Is this a test, or are they just bad at their job?”

Then, when Darth Vader appeared, Percy’s criticism became analytical. “Why does the giant bad guy need that loud helmet? It makes his voice echo. That’s bad for talking. And blowing up a planet seems like too much work just because someone is mad at their family. And if the Empire is so powerful, why did they build the air vent right next to the main power thing? That’s just incompetent design."

I spent the next hour trying to explain the complexities of cinematic mythology, plot armor, and the emotional weight of The Force, all filtered through the lens of a nine-year-old who saw plot holes and logistical failures everywhere. I gave up and let him watch a documentary about deep-sea bioluminescence, which he watched in rapt, silent attention, occasionally muttering comments like, “The fish hiding there is a rookie. I can still see it.”

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·|

I tried sports. I was a professional acrobat; surely, I could bond over physical activity. I brought a proper soccer ball and tried to teach him dribbling techniques on the vast back lawn.

Percy was surprisingly fast, but he seemed pathologically unable to focus on the goal.

“It’s about teamwork, Perce! The goal is to get the ball into the net!” I yelled, running after him.

“This grass is scratchy and the physics are wrong,” he deadpanned, before kicking the ball with all his might directly into the lake. He then immediately vaulted the fence and retrieved it, looking far more comfortable submerged in the cold, murky water than he did on the grass. “See? Much faster transport.”

I realized I was trying to bond with a child whose brain ran on sarcasm and saltwater. I was using all the wrong tools. The problem wasn't the activities; the problem was me trying to create a shared activity, rather than accepting what was already there. I was treating him like an assignment.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·|

It was a cold, rainy Sunday evening in late fall. I walked into the Manor without a plan, without a board game, and without a movie. I was just there, in my civilian clothes, unshaven, and genuinely exhausted after a tough week in Blüdhaven.

I found Bruce in the Cave, predictably, and Jason was in his room listening to music so loud the windows vibrated. Percy was nowhere to be seen.

I eventually drifted into the kitchen, drawn by the scent of warm vanilla and something sweet. Alfred was setting the table for dinner, and Percy was perched on a step stool beside the massive marble counter, carefully measuring out flour.

“Hey, Alfred,” I greeted, gratefully pouring myself a cup of the fresh coffee Alfred always seemed to have ready.

“Ah, Master Dick. Good to see you. We are engaged in a cooking project tonight,” Alfred said with a faint smile, gesturing toward Percy.

Percy was concentrating fiercely. His brow was furrowed, and he had a dusting of flour on his nose.

“Whatcha making, Perce? Is Alfred teaching you how to hide spinach in cookies?” I joked, leaning against the counter.

Percy shook his head solemnly. “No. These are… my mom’s cookies. Alfred is watching. They have to be blue. They taste better that way.”

He reached for a small bottle of electric blue food coloring.

I watched silently. This was it. This wasn’t an activity I’d imposed; this was his sacred task. I just stood there, drinking my coffee, offering no suggestions, asking no demanding questions about how many cups of sugar they needed. I was simply present.

“She always made them when I was scared,” Percy explained quietly, not looking up from the batter. “She said blue was the color of the good parts of the ocean, and it meant things would be calm again.”

“That’s beautiful, Perce,” I said honestly, and I meant it.

“Do you want to help?” he asked, suddenly looking up. His eyes were wide, inviting.

I hesitated only for a second. “I’d love to, kiddo. What’s the next step?”

He carefully pushed the flour bowl toward me. “The secret is to pretend the flour is sand. And you have to put in exactly three extra chocolate chips for luck, or they don’t work. The science says they burn the same, but they don't feel the same.”

For the next hour, I helped Percy sift, stir, measure, and meticulously place the three extra chocolate chips into the batter for luck. He narrated the process like an ancient ritual, his tone reverent, talking more freely about his mom and his memories than he had in all our previous, forced attempts combined.

When the warm, slightly charred, electric blue cookies came out of the oven, they were the best things I had ever tasted. They were warm, loaded with chocolate, and tasted faintly, wonderfully, of salt and acceptance.

We sat together at the kitchen table, splitting the first fresh cookie. It wasn't about solving crimes or learning history or even playing games. It was about being quiet, listening, and accepting a small, blue piece of someone else's fragile, beautiful world.

Show up when it matters. I finally understood. It mattered when I stopped trying to be the Big Brother Dick Grayson and just became the guy who appreciated a good, blue cookie recipe.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

November 28, 2002

Wayne Manor, Dining Room

9 Months & 12 Days Since Percy was adopted

2:00 PM

Thanksgiving was Bruce's favorite holiday, mostly because it required him to stand still and accept food. He liked the ritual and the rare moment of quiet domesticity. This year, it was just the five of us—Bruce, Alfred, Jason, Percy, and me.

The dining room table was a monument to excess: a twenty-pound turkey, mountains of mashed potatoes and stuffing, and a full battery of Alfred's perfect gravy. The room was warm, filled with the aroma of sage and rosemary.

The conversation started as it usually did: Jason was complaining about a history test, Bruce was giving short, affirmative grunts, and Alfred was supervising with the quiet dignity of a head-of-state. I was watching Percy.

He was meticulously dissecting his plate. He hadn't touched the turkey yet. He’d eaten a single piece of cranberry sauce and was now carefully rearranging his mashed potatoes into a small, edible dam.

"It’s okay if you don’t like it, Perce," I leaned in and whispered to him. "There are too many flavors. You don't have to eat it."

He didn't look up. “The turkey is a farm animal. It was grown to be big. It doesn't have the right amount of vitamins. The skin-to-meat ratio is also wrong."

This was Percy-speak for "I don't eat turkey."

I didn’t push. Instead, I grabbed the bread basket. "Hey, Alfred, this bread is great. Did you change how you made it?"

Alfred smiled. "A slight adjustment, Master Dick. A bit more sour flavor."

I looked at Percy, who had a sudden, focused interest in the bread. "I bet the way the bubbles are in this bread is really cool," I said, offering him a slice.

He took it. It was a silent treaty. He ate the sourdough bread and a small serving of the green beans, but he left the turkey and the stuffing untouched. No one commented. Bruce just passed the bowl of rolls closer to him without a word.

This time, my role wasn't to engage him, but to act as a buffer. To let him exist outside of the Wayne family’s intense, high-expectations bubble. He didn't have to be grateful, or enthusiastic, or even traditional. He just had to be.

Later, while Bruce and Jason were watching a football game—which Percy kept loudly critiquing for "not running fast enough on the side"—I found him in the library, hunched over a huge, leather-bound volume.

"What's the verdict on the guys running with the ball?" I asked, sitting in a nearby armchair.

"The knee is a weak part of the body. It’s a design flaw for a sport with so much hitting," he muttered. "This book, though, has really good drawings."

It was a book on oceanic geography and current systems.

"Did you know the Canary Current is much faster close to the beach than in the deep water?" he asked, pointing to a detailed map. "It’s because the water gets colder. The water weight changes."

"No, I didn't," I said, genuinely interested. "That's cool. I bet that makes driving a boat really complicated."

"It does," he said, and for the first time that day, his eyes held that clear, sharp enthusiasm. "You have to think about the spinning of the Earth, too. It makes everything bend."

He talked for a full twenty minutes about ocean currents, big water circles, and deep holes in the sea. I just listened, asking small, clarifying questions. He was a universe of information, and all he needed was an audience that didn't demand he talk about anything else.

That night, before I left, I stopped by his room. He was already tucked into bed.

"Hey, Perce."

"Hi, Dick," he mumbled.

"Thanks for teaching me about the ocean today. I learned a lot."

"The water works better than the land," he replied sleepily. "Less stupid rules."

I laughed softly. "Goodnight, kiddo."

I didn't try to kiss him on the forehead or give him a hug. I just stood at the door until he was asleep. My job was simple: to be the one who made space for the ocean in the middle of a Gotham holiday.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

December 25, 2002

Wayne Manor, Living Room

10 Months & 9 Days Since Percy was adopted

9:00 AM

Christmas morning was always a whirlwind. Alfred had the fireplace roaring, the tree was a tower of glittering, slightly crooked ornaments (Jason's handiwork), and the air smelled like pine and hot chocolate.

Percy had watched the preceding rituals with clinical detachment. He didn't write a list, and when asked, he merely stated, "I have what I need. Getting more things that aren't necessary is a waste of money."

Bruce, of course, had ignored this and bought him a small, industrial-grade telescope and a vintage first-edition book on Nautical Engineering. Jason had gotten him a ridiculously expensive, miniature Remote-Operated Vehicle (ROV) designed for deep-sea amateur exploration.

When it came to my present, I tried to remember the lesson of the blue cookies: participate in his world, don't impose yours.

"This one is from Dick," Bruce announced, handing Percy a medium-sized box, wrapped with a completely unnecessary amount of bright red paper.

Percy carefully and methodically peeled back the paper, folding it neatly before opening the box. Inside was a large, flat, heavy device. It was a high-quality, professional-grade drafting table with an adjustable stand and built-in, dimmable LED lights. Beside it, a large tin of deep-sea-themed colored pencils and pastels.

Percy stared at the gift, then looked up at me, his eyes wide with a confusion I hadn't seen before.

"I don't get it," he said, his voice quiet. "This is for real work. This isn't… a game."

"It's not a game," I confirmed, kneeling down beside him. "It’s a workspace. It’s for your 'rescues' and your planning. It's for whenever you have a logistics problem to solve, or you need to draw a better anglerfish. No more drawing on the sunroom floor, Perce. Now you have a proper station."

The utility of the gift seemed to short-circuit his usual defenses. His lower lip started to tremble slightly—a rare, heartbreaking display of raw emotion for the normally stoic child.

"It's… for my work," he whispered, running a hand over the smooth, angled surface of the table.

"It's for your work," I agreed. "We think your work is important, Perce."

He didn't cry, didn't jump up and down, and didn't give me a classic, media-approved 'movie hug.' Instead, he looked at me, really looked at me, with an expression of real, quiet trust.

"Thank you, Dick," he said, his voice thick. "This will make my drawings much better."

It was the most heartfelt thank you I had ever received. He didn’t care about the expense or the flash; he cared that I had acknowledged the deepest part of him—the part that needed to analyze, help.

Later that afternoon, after a long, chaotic meal, I found Percy in the sunroom, which was now brightly lit by the low winter sun. The new drafting table was set up in the center of the room. He was bent over it, drawing with intense concentration.

He was sketching a blueprint for a massive, safe place underwater—the kind of thing that would make National Geographic green with envy. It had warm vents for power, clean water machines, and a detailed section on what he called "best fish-flow."

"That’s amazing, Perce," I said, watching him sketch a structural support.

"The design has to be perfect," he explained, not looking up. "One bad spot and the whole thing breaks. You can't just hope when the water is pushing against you. You have to be better than the water."

I suddenly understood the root of his anxieties, his intense need for control and logic. He had been a small person in a large, illogical world. He was trying to engineer a universe where things made sense, where there were no holes in the hull.

"You're right," I said, my voice low and serious. "You have to be better. But it's okay to let someone else look at your drawings sometimes."

He paused, then offered me the pencil. "You check the place where the big glass dome sits," he commanded.

For the next hour, I helped a ten-year-old boy engineer a perfect underwater city. I was no structural engineer, but I was Dick Grayson, the one who listened, the one who cared enough to learn the language of his secret world.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

December 31, 2002 – January 1, 2003

Wayne Manor, Library

10 Months & 15 Days Since Percy was adopted

11:45 PM

New Year’s Eve was a quiet affair. Bruce and Alfred had gone to a small charity gala that required "mandatory board member attendance." Jason had his headphones on, reading in his room. It was just me and Percy.

We were in the library, a room of comforting wood and old paper. Percy was, predictably, not interested in watching the ball drop.

"It's a stupid thing to do," he stated, perched on the large hearth, watching the gas fire. "Changing the calendar date doesn't need a big shiny ball to fall from a tall building. The Earth will still go around the sun."

"It's about the change, Perce," I said, sitting on the rug next to him. "It's about having a set time to think about the last year and think about the next one. It’s like a reset button."

"My reset button is always on," he countered. "I reset my thinking every morning."

"I know," I said softly, looking into the fire. "But sometimes, you need a big, flashy one to remind you how much things have changed."

I gently steered the conversation to the past year. "Think about it. Last year, you were in an apartment, probably arguing with someone about leaky pipes. Now you're here. You have a loud-but-loyal older brother, a dad who acts like a grumpy owl, and a massive drafting table. That's a huge change."

He was quiet for a long time, watching the fire.

"I don't think I would have stayed alive outside in the cold," he confessed, his voice barely a murmur. "Not having a safe place is the biggest problem when you're trying to live."

The stark, simple honesty was like a punch to the gut. I reached out and gently squeezed his shoulder.

"You don't have to worry about that anymore, Perce. Never again."

"I know," he said, turning to look at me. His blue-green eyes were shimmering in the firelight. "I have a house, food, and the things I need to look at why the world is broken. It is the best place."

"And you have us," I added. "We're not perfect, but we're pretty good."

He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. The clock on the mantelpiece began to chime.

11:59 PM.

"Look, Perce," I said, pointing up. "It's not about the ball. It's about being here, right now, with the people who love you. Even the ones who think Star Wars is a historically accurate documentary."

He managed a small, genuine smile.

The final chime rang out. Midnight. New Year's Day.

"Happy New Year, Perce," I said.

"Happy New Year, Dick," he replied. "Don't make any bad plans."

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

January 3, 2003

Wayne Manor, Kitchen

10 Months & 17 Days Since Percy was adopted

4:00 PM

Two days after the New Year’s reset, I was packing up to head back to Blüdhaven. I had my duffel bag slung over my shoulder and was hunting for my car keys. I found Percy in the kitchen with Alfred.

Alfred was organizing the massive pantry, and Percy was at his new drafting table in the sunroom, working on a complex diagram involving optimal filtration for a giant squid habitat.

As I walked through, Alfred caught my eye and pointed discreetly to a covered plate on the counter.

"Before you leave, Master Dick," Alfred said, his voice gentle. "Master Percy insisted that I make sure you have enough supplies for your trip."

I walked over and lifted the cover. Beneath it were three perfect, slightly charred, electric blue cookies. They were warm, heavy with chocolate, and smelled faintly of vanilla and an undefinable sea-salt memory.

I walked into the sunroom and put the plate gently on the edge of the drafting table.

"Hey, Perce. Alfred said I have a travel pack."

Percy looked up from his work, his expression serious. "It's a supply delivery," he stated, his chin high. "You're driving to that other city. The road is bad, and people drive too fast. You will need fuel that works well."

He looked at the three cookies. "Three is the best number. It gives you enough comfort, but not too much. More would be a waste. Less would be not enough for a long drive."

It wasn't a hug. It wasn't a poem. It was an engineered act of care, rooted in his own fierce, logistical logic.

I picked up a cookie. It was warm, and the intense blue of the batter looked almost iridescent in the afternoon light. I took a bite. The flavor was exactly right: sweet, chocolatey, and tasting distinctly of salt and acceptance.

"It's perfect, Perce," I said, my voice husky. "The plan is flawless. Thank you."

He didn't need to hear that I loved him, or that I was proud of him. He needed to know that his care was correct and important.

"You're welcome, Dick," he replied, already turning back to his sketch of the giant squid. "Now, go. I need to finish the support beams before dinner."

I ate the second cookie and wrapped the third in a napkin, tucking it deep into my duffel bag for the long night drive.

I stopped at the door of the sunroom, looking back at the ten-year-old boy bent over his work, surrounded by the quiet, unconditional acceptance of his new life. He was safe, he was drawing his ocean, and he was fueling my journey. 

He was my brother.

| · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·| · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·|· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·|· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·|· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·| 

 ⊱✿⊰ Jason POV ⊱✿⊰ 

January 19, 2003

Wayne Manor Gym

11 Months & 3 Days Since Percy was adopted

3:45 PM

The private gym in Wayne Manor, a bright, expansive room full of machines Bruce used when he needed to feel extra self-loathing, was on quiet Saturday afternoons reserved for Jason and Percy.

Jason, at fourteen, considered his time here with his younger brother to be less about training and more about damage mitigation. He was teaching Percy—who possessed an alarming combination of natural slipperiness and total disregard for personal safety—just enough to escape a bad situation.

Jason was sitting cross-legged against a padded wall, flipping through a well-worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, while Percy was attempting to do highly irregular push-ups on a yoga mat, occasionally pausing to critique the gym's lighting system.

“Percy, your form is atrocious,” Jason called out without looking up. “Your back is like a frightened cat. You’re not building strength; you’re just proving that basic calisthenics are an evolutionary dead end for you.”

Percy dropped to the mat with a sigh, rolling onto his back. “It’s the mats. They’re too firm for proper energy transfer. Also, why are we doing this? I can run faster than anyone at school. Evasion is superior to confrontation.”

Jason closed his book, marking the page with a torn piece of receipt. “Evasion is great. But sometimes, Percy, someone bigger than you forgets their manners and gets their hands on you. This isn't about fighting, kid. This is about getting out. Rule one of Gotham: Don't fight fair. Fight efficiently.”

Percy grinned, running over. “Finally. Applied escape theory. I’ve been analyzing the human anatomy. The wrist is a structural choke point.”

“Good observation,” Jason approved, standing up and adopting his best serious instructor voice. “Let's try a common scenario. You’re facing a bully—bigger, stronger, probably smells like existential dread. He shoves you up against the lockers.”

Jason stood up, towering over Percy, and gently but firmly placed a large hand on Percy’s shoulder and chest, mimicking an aggressive shove.

“Now, what’s the first priority?” Jason asked.

Percy’s sharp eyes darted up to Jason’s face, not in fear, but calculation. “Analyze the structural weaknesses in the tyranny of the grasp.”

Jason couldn't help but crack a smile. “Sure, let’s go with the dramatic phrasing. What’s the plan?”

“Create distance, don’t push,” Percy declared. “Pushing meets force with force, which is what the oppressor expects. We must use misdirection.”

And then Percy did something genuinely unsettling. He didn't use his small arms to push or pry. Instead, he simply slipped. His body seemed to compress and shift fluidly, twisting his core and stepping so rapidly into Jason’s personal space that the contact points Jason was using (shoulder, chest) were instantly lost. It was like trying to catch mist in a net.

Percy instantly created an angle behind Jason. He grabbed the fabric of Jason’s t-shirt at the back of the neck and executed a lightning-fast, highly effective forward trip, using the leverage of Jason’s momentum against him.

Jason—who had not been expecting to find himself suddenly airborne—landed on the soft mat with a surprised oof. He certainly hadn't taught him that move.

Percy stood over him, hands on his hips, wearing the triumphant smirk of a revolutionary leader who'd just executed a perfect political maneuver.

“See? Inefficiency,” Percy stated smugly. “I used the principle of The Swine’s Downfall.”

Jason groaned, pushing himself up on an elbow. “The Swine’s Downfall? Are you quoting Animal Farm to justify a hip toss?”

“Chapter Seven, paragraph four,” Percy confirmed proudly. “The pigs had the weight, but the opposition had the intelligence to use the terrain and the element of surprise. You rely on sheer volume, which is a fallacy of brute force.”

“That is not a self-defense principle, Perce, that’s just pretentious literary justification for being a weirdly slippery kid!” Jason rubbed the back of his neck. “I taught you basic escape techniques, not allegorical takedowns!”

“But why learn a bunch of complicated movements when you only need one simple, effective counter? My counter is: be slippery and utilize the laws of physics against your attacker,” Percy reasoned, completely serious.

Jason just stared at him. He knew, intellectually, that Percy had never had any formal training. Yet, his movements were impossibly fluid, always shifting the point of contact to the most unbalanced location. When Percy dodged a light jab, he didn't lean away; he seemed to flow around it, like a current.

“You’re an unnatural menace, Perce,” Jason said finally, standing up and dusting off his shirt. “You’re impossible to hit cleanly.”

“I’m just highly adaptable,” Percy shrugged.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

They moved out of the gym and into the adjacent sunroom, Jason sipping a much-needed iced tea and Percy drinking a large glass of water—always just water.

“So, what’s next on the reading list, since you’ve clearly mastered George Orwell?” Jason asked, leaning back in an armchair.

Percy, who was swinging his legs and tracing patterns into the foggy glass of the window, looked thoughtful. “I reread The Iliad.”

Jason nearly spit out his tea. He leaned forward, genuine confusion overriding his usual sarcasm. “Wait, you finished it? The big one? Perce, you’ve told us reading anything with a lot of long words gives you a headache. That thing is like, a million pages of old English translation, and you have dyslexia.”

Percy shrugged. “The English version was terrible. All the words swam around, and it made my head hurt, like you said. So I grabbed that big, dusty one from Bruce’s restricted shelf. The one with all the weird symbols.”

Jason’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “The one with the symbols? Kid, are you telling me you read the original Ancient Greek text?”

Percy looked slightly bewildered by the question. “Yeah. It was fine. It just… made sense. The letters didn't swim. It felt like the words were telling me exactly what they were.” He paused, then returned to his critique. “It’s about bad decisions and terrible planning, though. I liked when the guys were fighting at sea, that felt right. But otherwise, Achilles needs to get over himself. He's letting his personal feelings derail the entire military campaign. It’s selfish and poor leadership. And Hector knows this is going to end badly, but he keeps doing it anyway. Why don’t they just negotiate an efficient truce?”

Jason stared, slowly setting his iced tea down on the end table. “Percy… that is Ancient Greek. It’s a dead language. Nobody reads that. And you—the kid who has trouble with a cereal box—read a classic in the dead original language because the English translation was too much work?”

Percy frowned. “Yeah? Is that weird? It just came to me easier.” He tapped the window. “I want to reread The Odyssey next. That one has more boats and cyclopses, which sound like poor tactical enemies—one eye is a huge vulnerability.”

Jason sighed, but his expression softened, hiding a very specific type of bewildered pride. He opted not to question the impossible language breakthrough. It was probably just another one of Percy’s weird, statistically improbable quirks. He was Bruce's kid now, which meant he was allowed at least three impossible quirks.

“Okay, okay,” Jason conceded, reaching out and ruffling Percy’s perpetually damp hair. “Next week, we ditch the high-casualty epic poetry, and I’ll get us some classic sci-fi. Something about aliens. They always have terrible security protocols and glaring design flaws. You can tell me all the ways the invasion should have failed sooner.”

Percy’s blue-green eyes lit up with genuine delight. “Only if there are submarines or giant squids involved in the failed invasion plan.”

“I’ll find one,” Jason promised. Because finding a sci-fi novel that could stand up to Percy’s scrutiny was, frankly, an easier assignment than trying to teach him a standard shoulder roll.

| · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·| · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·|· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·|· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·|· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·| 

 ⊱✿⊰ Jason POV ⊱✿⊰ 

April 22, 2003

Wayne Manor Grounds

1 Year, 2 Months, & 6 Days Since Percy was adopted

9:53 AM

The first indication that Bruce was attempting to be a "decent, normal father" was the attire: not the stiff suit of Brucie Wayne, nor the armor of the cowl, but a pair of ridiculously expensive cashmere sweatpants and a threadbare college hoodie. The second indicator was the project: a colossal, unnecessarily complex bird feeder Bruce had decided to construct near the Manor's small, man-made lake.

"I still maintain this is a waste of aircraft-grade aluminum," Jason muttered, wiping the damp soil off his work gloves. He was kneeling, anchoring the corner post for the 'feeder,' which was rapidly turning into an ornithological fortress. "We live in Gotham. The birds here prefer stale pretzels and fear."

Bruce, who was calibrating a laser level to ensure the perch was within 0.01 degrees of true horizontal, didn't look up. "It’s about stability, Jason. You wouldn't want the structure to fail under adverse weather conditions."

"Adverse weather conditions being, what, a slight drizzle? This thing could withstand a rocket attack, B. It's a bird bunker."

Percy, meanwhile, was completely absorbed. He was crouched by the lake's edge, seemingly inspecting the mud, but Jason knew better. Percy was taking mental notes. His intensity was dialed up to eleven, the same intensity he usually reserved for discussing the failings of the U.S. political system or why Achilles was a military liability.

"The structural integrity is fine," Percy declared, not taking his eyes off the water. "The issue is the moisture retention in the base wood. It will swell unevenly, causing a critical failure in the center mass within six weeks, regardless of your aluminum supports."

Jason covered his face with his hand. "See, Bruce? He speaks the language of structural collapse now. This is your fault for having too many schematics lying around."

Bruce finally straightened up, pushing a stray lock of hair back with a smudge of dirt on his forehead—a rare, messy sight. He looked genuinely contemplative. "That's a valid point, Percy. We should have used cedar. But given the materials we have, what is the most efficient mitigation technique?"

Percy finally turned, his blue-green eyes sharp. "We shouldn't put a roof on it. The roof is inefficient. It provides shade, yes, but it forces the birds to feed at a lower angle, increasing vulnerability. If it rains, we just need to use a wider, flatter feeding surface that dries quickly and drains directly into the soil."

Jason snorted. "He just wants to simplify the project because it's too much work, B. Don't fall for the revolutionary rhetoric."

"No, I think he has a point about moisture retention," Bruce admitted, a small, tired smile playing on his lips. He walked over to Jason and slapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Alright, scrap the roof truss. Let's just focus on the basin. Go find the marine-grade sealant in the utility shed, Jase."

As Jason walked toward the shed, he paused and looked back. Bruce was kneeling beside Percy, not condescendingly, but side-by-side, pointing at a blueprint on the ground (yes, Bruce had blueprints for the bird feeder). Bruce was listening. Percy was pointing out flaws with the intense confidence of a CEO.

Jason allowed a genuine smile to surface—one that didn't involve sarcasm or irony. This was good. Bruce, the man who communicated primarily through grunts and vague threats, was spending his Saturday covered in sawdust, actively soliciting project critique from his nine-year-old. It wasn't perfect, but it was solid. It was grounding.

Maybe, Jason thought, grabbing the sealant, maybe he's going to make it after all.

 ⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰ 

April 22, 2003

Wayne Manor Grounds

1 Year, 2 Months, & 6 Days Since Percy was adopted

10:01 AM

Percy liked the feeling of the moist earth and the sound the lake made when the breeze ruffled the surface. The small, man-made pond was nothing like the ocean, but the water was there. It felt familiar, calming.

He didn't really care about the birds. He cared about the principle of the bird feeder. If you were going to build a functional structure, it needed to be built well. Bruce's design was structurally sound but functionally? Easy to consider cumbersome. It was way too complicated.

Percy liked watching Bruce's hands. They were huge and capable, but they handled the small screws and the fine wood grain with surprising gentleness. Bruce wasn't a talker. When he bonded, he used tools. He showed you how the world was put together, piece by piece.

Percy walked back from the lake with a small handful of smooth, river-worn stones. He approached Bruce, who was now carefully applying wood glue to the feeding basin.

"Bruce," Percy said, holding out the stones.

Bruce paused, peering at the stones. "What are these for, Perce?"

"Drainage," Percy explained simply. "If the food gets wet, it molds. That's inefficient and potentially toxic. We need tiny gaps, but the water needs to drain away quickly, not sit on the surface." He placed the stones in a ring inside the basin. "The water flows through the gaps, but the food sits high and dry."

Bruce straightened up, studying the arrangement. He didn't scoff or correct him. He just nodded slowly. "That's excellent environmental engineering, Percy. You've created a natural French drain system on a micro-scale." He knelt down and started placing his own, larger stones around Percy's pattern, securing them with the same care he used for the aluminum posts.

It felt warm in Percy's chest. Not because Bruce agreed, but because Bruce understood. He didn't dismiss the idea just because it came from a ten-year-old who liked to quote Russian allegories.

"Jason says the birds here are cynical," Percy observed, leaning back on his heels.

Bruce chuckled—a low, gravelly sound that always surprised Percy. "Jason is right. The fauna of Gotham are rarely optimistic. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try to make their lives a little easier." He glanced at Percy, his tired eyes softened by the afternoon sun. "Sometimes, Percy, the simple act of trying to do something good, even if it's over-engineered and unnecessary, is the point."

"Like freeing the fish?" Percy asked innocently, testing the boundaries.

Bruce paused, closing the wood glue bottle. "No, Perce. Like building a house for the birds. Freeing the fish involves trespassing and potential maritime law violations."

"They were miserable," Percy insisted, a slight frown crossing his face. "I could feel it. And besides you just agreed I was freeing them! That first requires them to be trapped."

Bruce didn't argue this time. He just tapped the basin Percy had designed. "Let's focus on helping the creatures who want to be helped, okay? And maybe keep your revolutionary urges focused on structural efficiency for now."

Percy nodded, accepting the compromise. He picked up a small paintbrush and started helping Bruce seal the corners of the basin, feeling a quiet satisfaction in the collaborative silence.

 ⊱✿⊰ Jason POV ⊱✿⊰ 

April 22, 2003

Wayne Manor Grounds

1 Year, 2 Months, & 6 Days Since Percy was adopted

10:12 AM

Jason returned with the can of marine-grade sealant and immediately noticed two things: the roof was gone (a victory for common sense), and Bruce and Percy were working in synchronized, quiet harmony, meticulously painting the feeder basin with what appeared to be boat paint.

"Boat paint, really?" Jason asked, setting the can down. "We're sealing it against the deep sea?"

Bruce took the sealant can from him. "It resists mildew and extreme moisture. Necessary for long-term survival."

"Right. Because, again, Gotham seagulls."

They spent the next hour building the feeding platform. Bruce was a whirlwind of precision, but Jason realized that every time Percy offered an opinion—from moving a support beam two inches back to avoid wind shear, to using a specific type of knot on the mounting rope—Bruce would pause and genuinely consider it, often nodding and making the change. It was a kind of respect Jason rarely saw Bruce give anyone, even Dick.

Then came the moment of truth. They stood back to admire the finished product: a ridiculously sturdy, three-foot-tall wooden structure, painted a sensible forest green and mounted on an aluminum post so thick it looked like an industrial chimney.

"Magnificent," Jason drawled. "It looks like the birds will have to pass a security clearance to eat here."

"It's practical," Percy defended, though he was hiding a proud smile.

Bruce just smiled. He didn't reach for a tool. He didn't sigh in disappointment. He simply stood there, his arm slung casually around Jason's shoulder, and his hand resting lightly on the back of Percy’s damp head.

Just then, a small, aggressive-looking blue jay landed on the top of the aluminum post, peered down at the massive structure, squawked once, and immediately flew off to eat a discarded hot dog wrapper near the driveway.

Jason burst out laughing, a genuine, loud, fourteen-year-old sound. Bruce let out a low, tired chuckle that morphed into a hearty laugh. Even Percy cracked up, shaking his head.

"See?" Jason gasped, wiping his eye. "Inefficient. The bird rejected the structure immediately."

"It lacked the necessary curb appeal," Percy conceded, his smile wide.

Bruce squeezed Jason's shoulder and ruffled Percy’s hair one last time. "Maybe so. But we spent three hours outside, and no one was electrocuted, arrested, or quoted revolutionary manifestos to me. I call that a win." He looked at both of them, his expression suddenly softer than usual. "Thank you, boys. That was… necessary."

As they headed back inside, leaving the abandoned bird fortress behind them, Jason knew that these imperfect, laughter-filled moments were the real foundation of their life. They didn't need to save the world every day. Sometimes, they just needed to build something ridiculous together, fail spectacularly, and still walk away feeling like a family.

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⊱✿⊰ 3rd Person POV ⊱✿⊰ 

June 5, 2003 

Wayne Manor Theatre

9 Months 20 Days Since Percy was adopted

8:43 PM

The lights came up on the gigantic flatscreen in the Wayne Manor movie theatre, replacing the Disney castle logo with a title screen for a decidedly less magical, and far more gritty, documentary on obscure maritime law.

Dick Grayson stretched, tossing the empty popcorn bowl into the waiting hands of an exasperated Alfred. "There! That's what I call a movie night. Educational, informative, and absolutely zero singing fish."

"Good. Now can we watch something that doesn't involve princesses or boats?" Jason Todd, trying to look bored, slouched lower in his seat, though he was secretly glad the movie was over.

"No!" Percy, all of ten years old, jumped up. He had bright, almost sea-green eyes and a perpetual look of determined annoyance when his brothers failed to appreciate the finer things in life.

"It's not fair! We watched your boring boat movie, Dick, and your scary ninja movie, Jason. Now it's my turn again! Ariel!"

Jason groaned dramatically, throwing his arm over his face. "Four times this week, Percy! I swear, if I hear 'Under the Sea' one more time, I'm going to set sail and never come back."

"The human world is a mess! The song says it!" Percy insisted, stomping his foot. "Please, Dick! I'll make you cookies to last the whole week and not ask any questions about why you and Jason always look tired!"

Dick paused, a grin spreading across his face as he looked at his eager little brother. Percy, with his messy black hair and his insistence on all things aquatic, certainly fit a certain mold. The mention of the "tired" look made both Dick and Jason exchange a fast, nervous glance, but Percy was too focused on the TV to notice.

"A whole week, huh?" Dick rubbed his chin, pretending to consider it. "That's a powerful bargain, little dude. Especially since Jason and I need all the help we can get keeping this place sane."

Percy's face lit up. "Yes! Deal! Get in the car, loser, we're going rewatching!"

As Percy scrambled to restart the movie, Jason just shook his head. "I'm calling the plumber. He's clearly got water damage in his brain."

Dick nudged Jason playfully with his elbow. "You know, he really reminds me of that little fish sidekick."

Jason looked up, momentarily intrigued. "The yellow one? The one who's always freaking out?"

"Yeah," Dick chuckled, ruffling Percy's hair as he rushed past. "Always following Ariel around, always panicking, and absolutely obsessed with the little mermaid and everything to do with the sea." He paused, a mischievous glint in his eye. "You know what? I'm keeping that."

He clapped his hands, making a silly announcement to the room. "Alright, everyone! Lights down! Flounder is back on the big screen!"

Percy, oblivious and already lost in the animated waves, just yelled: "It's the best part! Watch this! She's finding the dingelhopper!"

But Dick just winked at Jason. "'Flounder' it is. Don't worry, Jay, we'll get him into a sensible vigilante nickname when he's older."

"Only if he picks a land animal," Jason muttered, leaning back and preparing himself for the inevitable Sebastian musical number. "I'm not fighting crime with a fish."

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 ⊱✿⊰ 3rd Person POV ⊱✿⊰ 

July 12, 2003

Wayne Manor

10 Months 26 Days Since Percy was adopted

8:42 AM

The Wayne Manor Breakfast Table was usually a zone of relative truce, governed by the iron fist of Alfred Pennyworth and the implicit threat of cold oatmeal. But this morning, with Dick home for a long weekend, the air crackled with anticipated menace.

Jason, deep into his moody, intellectual phase, was attempting to read a dense collection of existentialist poetry while simultaneously eating a pancake. Bruce was reviewing budgets, trying to achieve a state of pre-coffee equilibrium.

Percy, ten, was the calmest, quietly sipping from his glass of water, which was (unbeknownst to him) the center of Dick’s initial tactical strike. Dick, pretending to read the financial news, was smugly waiting. He had slipped a highly concentrated, flavorless, but intensely bitter chemical drop into Percy’s drink.

Percy took a normal sip. His eyes immediately bugged out. His entire face contorted into a mask of pure, disgusted betrayal.

Before he could swallow, the vile water was rejected. Percy gagged, and sprayed the bitter stream onto the tablecloth in front of him, creating a messy, sticky puddle of betrayal.

Jason looked up, startled, then saw the vile-tasting splatter. "What the hell was that, Perce?"

Dick, meanwhile, was laughing—a loud, triumphant, utterly unrepentant sound that echoed off the high ceilings. "Oh, man! That's what you get for being too quiet at breakfast, kid! Welcome home!"

Percy wiped his mouth furiously with a linen napkin, his blue-green eyes narrowed into dangerous slits of fury. He didn't yell or throw the glass; instead, he fixed Dick with a stare so intense it felt like a laser beam. His voice, when it came, was low, sharp, and carried the weight of a televised presidential address.

"This, Dick, is an act of evil," Percy declared, throwing the damp napkin onto the table like a formal gauntlet. "An act of war," He stood up, knocking his chair slightly askew. "Oh, it is so on."

Jason, wiping the last of the boredom and idle interest off his face, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face, immediately slammed his hand onto the table. "I'm with Percy. You just activated the ten-year-old terrorist, Dick. This is a gross misuse of resources."

Bruce, who had spent the entire exchange staring at the coffee he'd managed to save, sighed the deepest sigh of his career, so far. "Boys, I am giving you one hour to recall this ridiculous declaration. Otherwise, I will institute mandatory morning calisthenics in the snow. And Percy, you are going to apologize to Alfred for that mess."

Alfred, gliding in to clean the non-spilled coffee and the suddenly sticky tabletop, only said, "I have pre-ordered industrial quantities of cleaning solvent, Master Bruce. And may I suggest the attic be sealed? We lost several priceless tapestries during the last 'escalation.'"

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

The war started small, but escalated rapidly, primarily targeting Dick, the initial aggressor.

Dick struck first, using his superior acrobatics and knowledge of the Manor’s security system to target Jason's sanctuary: his sleep. Jason was violently wrenched from his sleep at 3 AM not by a simple alarm, but by a full-spectrum sonic assault. Dick had patched into the Manor's high-end, multi-zone audio system, blasting a synchronized recording of heavy metal polka music through every speaker in Jason's suite, coupled with the strobe light effect from the room's smart lighting system.

Jason emerged at breakfast the next day looking like a particularly disgruntled raccoon. "Polka? Dick, that's not anarchy, that's just poor taste," he drawled, pushing his untouched oatmeal away.

Jason, the technological tactician, targeted Dick's mental resources. He knew Dick relied on the smart security features in his suite.

That afternoon, Dick returned from a lengthy, exhausting workout. He needed his room, his shower, and silence. He tried to activate the door's voice command: "Authorization: Grayson, Dick. Open."

The door replied in a crisp, synthesized English accent: “Apologies, Master Richard. Access denied. A superior literary authentication is required for entry.”

Dick swore. He tried again. "Override code, Alpha-1-Alpha."

“Insufficient thematic integrity. Please quote a passage detailing the anguish of repressed desire from a nineteenth-century English novel for clearance.”

Dick slammed his forehead against the oak door. "Jason! You little literary terrorist!"

Jason, who was watching on a monitor from the library with Percy, replied over the intercom, adopting a perfect Alfred voice: “Quite right, Master Richard. Perhaps the young master should be more considerate of his younger siblings’ sleeping environment next time, as detailed in Volume II of Sense and Sensibility.”

It took Dick nearly fifteen minutes, three failed attempts at Wuthering Heights, and a deeply embarrassing recital of Elizabeth Bennet's rejection of Mr. Darcy to get his door open.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

Percy's contribution, however, was silent, swift, and aesthetically devastating. He didn't go for comfort; he went for vanity.

Dick’s morning routine was his sacred time. He entered the shower, feeling victorious after his brief workout, and grabbed his expensive, specially formulated shampoo.

What he didn't know was that Percy, after a detailed, quiet consultation with Jason about chemical stability and pigment strength, had carefully removed the cap, drained most of the product, and replaced it with a custom mixture of thick hair gel and highly concentrated, neon blue hair dye. It wasn’t temporary dye.

When Dick stepped out of the shower twenty minutes later, he caught his reflection. His hair—his prized, perfectly styled, usually black hair—was now the brilliant, shocking shade of a tropical poison dart frog. It was blindingly, unapologetically blue.

He stood there, dripping, in stunned silence.

He stormed downstairs, finding Percy innocently watching cartoons in the lounge. His blue hair was spiked into a terrifying, wet crest.

"Percy! What did you do to my hair!" Dick roared.

Percy didn't flinch. He just tilted his head innocently and blinked up at Dick. "Nothing. Your hair looks amazing, if I do say so myself. Better than it bid before at least."

Jason, entering the room and taking one look at Dick's magnificent, glowing hair, collapsed onto the nearest sofa in helpless, tear-inducing laughter.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

The sibling rivalry was exhausting, and a natural alliance formed to strike at the common, most powerful enemy: Bruce.

"We need a statement piece," Jason declared to the now three-person team (Percy had been granted veto power). "Something that hits his routine, his formality, and his sense of hyper-efficiency."

Dick suggested a boring glitterbomb mixed with a superglue so the glitter would be impossible to remove. Percy, remembering the sheer disgust Bruce showed for anything sugary, had a much better idea.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

Bruce started every single day with a specialized, proprietary, sugar-free, energy-boosting protein shake, formulated by three different European nutritionists. It was his daily commitment to optimal performance.

The target was a case of twelve bottles sitting in the back of the massive refrigerator.

The Plan (Jason’s design, Percy’s execution):

1. Jason procured dozens of medical-grade syringes and industrial-grade strawberry gelatin powder.
2. Percy was tasked with being the lookout and ensuring the environment was "optimal"—meaning, keeping Alfred distracted by asking detailed questions about the silverware polishing process.
3. Working late into the night, the three boys used the syringes to suck out the brown, viscous protein sludge from all twelve bottles, replacing the contents with a thick, shockingly bright red strawberry gelatin. They used a professional-grade vacuum sealer to replace the foil seals perfectly.

The next morning, Bruce walked into the kitchen, wearing a black silk robe and an aura of supreme weariness. He grabbed a bottle, twisted the cap, and went to take a large, necessary gulp before his 9 AM meeting.

He tilted the bottle back. Nothing happened.

Bruce frowned. He shook the bottle. It didn't slosh; it jiggled.

He peered into the dark bottle. He could see a mass of shimmering, solid red. It was thick, bouncy, and smelled faintly of artificial strawberry and high fructose corn syrup.

He set the bottle down with immense care. His voice was dangerously low, a pre-Bat growl.

"Alfred," he said, not turning around. "Did someone replace my highly specialized, extremely expensive nutritional supplement with twelve gallons of high-fructose, coagulated fruit sugar?"

Alfred, who was discreetly polishing the antique tea caddy, paused. "It would appear, Master Bruce, that an act of delicious sabotage has been committed. I shall call your nutritionist immediately to prepare an antidote."

Bruce didn't laugh. He didn't yell. He simply put the bottle back in the fridge and left the room.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

Bruce didn't retaliate with whoopee cushions or shaving cream. He retaliated like a CEO who was annoyed.

That evening, as Jason was about to stream a documentary on the social implications of failed communist regimes, his tablet went dark. The Wi-Fi signal had vanished.

"The server must be down," Dick said, trying his own laptop. Dead silence.

Jason ran to the library, but the rare book section—his favorite haunt—was locked. A note was taped to the glass: "The wisdom of the ages is best appreciated after a full day of productive, non-anarchistic endeavor. Re-read your assigned homework. - B."

Percy, who was trying to finish a video game about deep-sea exploration, found the game lagging impossibly slowly. His room felt suddenly chilly. Not cold enough to complain, just cold enough to be irritating. The room temperature was technically normal, but a small, specialized humidifier installed high on his shelf (Dick’s doing) was now emitting a subtle mist laced with a very mild, non-toxic coolant, making the ambient air feel perpetually clammy.

Bruce's strategy was simple: Target the Infrastructure and Comfort.

The next day, Dick discovered that all his custom-tailored uniforms had mysteriously been dry-cleaned with a highly irritating, static-inducing fabric softener, making the silk cling aggressively to his skin. Jason found that every single pen in his room now wrote only in iridescent purple gel.

The Prank War had officially escalated from playful to existential.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

The boys were frustrated. They couldn't hit Bruce where it mattered—his work was outside the Manor, and his internal routine was too disciplined. They needed something absurd, something that referenced their shared, ridiculous history, and something that risked serious water damage.

They decided to return to the source of Percy's most spectacular crime: The Aquarium Incident.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

Jason found a massive, decommissioned aquarium prop—a five-foot-long monstrosity used in a B-list horror film Bruce had invested in—stashed in one of the lower storage levels.

"It's perfect, Perce," Jason whispered, eyes gleaming with manic glee. "We stage a full-scale revolutionary tableau."

The logistics of getting the tank up three flights of stairs and into Bruce's private, secluded office were solved by Jason's engineering genius. He procured a motorized hand-truck and a series of heavy-duty, military-grade pulleys and winches (all labeled as "Jason's School Science Project Supplies") from the utility wing. It was a sweat-inducing, physics-defying operation, with Percy serving as the small counterweight and spotter.

Once the tank was in the office, the engineering phase began.

Jason, who knew the location of every pipe and vent in the Manor, rigged a series of thin, dark hoses from the office's air conditioning unit (which contained a massive dehumidifier reservoir) and ran them along the baseboards and into the tank. Using a silent, battery-powered bilge pump and a series of timed valves, they began the slow, agonizing process of filling the tank using stolen, purified water from the Manor's plumbing. The air in the office was now thick and damp due to the minor leaks in the makeshift system, and the sheer volume of water being moved was a logistical nightmare.

The tank was filled silently, terrifyingly quickly, a clear, shimmering threat to Bruce’s hard drive.

Jason then added his strategic touch. He had purchased fifty cheap, bright yellow rubber fish. He attached tiny, laminated labels to each one, filled with the greatest revolutionary quotes and literary critiques they could muster:

• To a large, grumpy bass: "All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others."
• To a neon tetra: "The miserable condition of these animals is a crime, and man's tyranny must be resisted!"
• To a slimy eel: "Achilles needs to get over himself."
• To a shark prop: "One must negotiate an efficient truce."
• To a goldfish: "The only distinguishing part of a man is the hand!"

They positioned the massive, water-filled tank directly next to Bruce's highly expensive, leather-upholstered power chair, with the clear implication that any sudden movement could tip the massive, water-logged literary statement and drown his computer network.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

Bruce returned late that night, tired and ready for his final, low-key administrative retaliation. He walked into his office.

The air hit him first: it was cool, thick, and undeniably damp.

Then he saw it: the colossal, glowing aquarium, illuminated from below by a cheap submersible LED light, filled with fifty floating rubber fish, each sporting a tiny, laminated philosophical critique of his life choices. The tank was filled so high that the water was mere millimeters from the rim, a clear, shimmering threat to his hard drive.

Bruce stared. He walked around the massive tank slowly, inspecting a tiny fish labeled: "The best laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft agley."

He did not yell. He did not call security. He simply closed the door and went down to dinner, his face an impenetrable mask of exhaustion and existential defeat.

Alfred served the main course: Beef Wellington, a dish typically reserved for state dinners. It was exquisite, perfectly flaky, and smelled divine.

But when Bruce cut into his portion, he stopped. The meat, the potatoes, the asparagus—every single component on the plate—had been meticulously shaped into the form of a tiny, perfectly rendered rubber duck.

Jason started to giggle. Dick clapped his hand over Percy's mouth to prevent the inevitable giggles and accompanying snorts of amusement.

Bruce looked from his plate of savory ducks to the boys, then to Alfred, whose face held the beatific expression of a man who had finally seen justice done.

Bruce looked back down at the plate. He lifted a savory potato-duck. He set it down. He looked at the three conspiring faces, one ten, one fourteen, one twenty, all united in their commitment to his misery.

And then, Bruce Wayne, the Dark Knight, the CEO, the Master of the House, broke. He started to laugh—a deep, booming, helpless sound of utter resignation.

He threw his hands up in defeat. "I surrender," he choked out, wiping his eyes. "I forfeit all claims to order, sanity, and dry office equipment. Ceasefire. Effective immediately."

Jason cheered. Percy clapped, pleased with the outcome.

"However," Bruce warned, his eyes narrowing slightly as he regained control. "This war is only postponed. And next time, I'm bringing in specialized dry ice machines."

Alfred smiled, removing the empty dessert plates. "A most satisfactory outcome, Masters. Now, who would care for a cup of tea? I have a particularly soothing chamomile blend. And perhaps, Master Jason, you could assist me in re-filing those rare books you liberated during the skirmish."

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 ⊱✿⊰ Percy POV ⊱✿⊰ 

April 18, 2004

Wayne Manor

2 Years, 2 Months, & 2 days Since Percy was Addopted

9:32 AM

That Sunday morning started like any other at the Wayne manor. It was one of the few places Percy had ever felt safe since his mom was… gone. The smell of Alfred’s blueberry pancakes was already drifting upstairs, and the autumn sun was trying its best to pierce through the curtains. Percy, already dressed in a ridiculously soft hoodie of Dick’s, was heading down the hall, half-listening to a podcast on marine biology.

Then he saw the door to Jason's room, a little ajar.

It shouldn’t have been. Jason was a neat freak, especially about his room. He’d left for what he called a "super-important, top-secret, totally-not-a-stupid-idea trip" the day before, and he’d promised Percy he’d be back for their movie night. "No way am I missing the premiere of Triton's Revenge, part 4," he'd said, ruffling Percy's messy black hair.

Percy pushed the door open.

The room was spotless, which was weird, but not the weird thing. The weird thing was the white envelope stuck to the middle of Jason’s desk mirror, right over a faded photo of him and Percy grinning awkwardly on a roller coaster. Percy’s name was written across it in Jason's familiar, slightly blocky handwriting.

Percy’s stomach felt suddenly cold, like he’d swallowed a piece of ice.

He tore the letter open.

Hey, Barnacle-Brain,

If you’re reading this, I’m gone. Don’t panic. This isn't one of my normal trips, it’s… different. I finally got a solid lead—a good one this time, Perce—on my mom. My actual, biological mom.

I know what Bruce said. I know he wanted me to wait. But I can’t. I'm going to find her. This is important, Perce. It's the only chance I'm gonna get to finally figure out where I came from, you know?

Don’t tell Alfred where I went—he’ll just worry. And don’t tell Dick—he’ll just try to drag me back. Tell Bruce…Actually, don't tell him anything.I'll call as soon as I can.

I need to do this on my own.

Keep an eye on the old man, okay? And don’t let Dick watch any of those cheesy sci-fi movies while I'm gone.

I'll be back.

—Your Favorite Brother

Percy read the note twice. Then a third time. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He didn't understand the sudden rush of relief he felt—it was a stupid, selfish relief. Jason was okay. He was doing a Jason thing. He was gone, but he was fine.

The note felt flimsy in his hand, and he smoothed it out, tucking it carefully into the pocket of Dick’s hoodie. He could keep a secret. He knew how.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

The week was long and silent. Percy missed the loud, chaotic energy Jason always brought to the manor—the constant stream of bad jokes, the debates over which superhero was cooler (Jason always picked Robin, Percy always picked Aquaman). Bruce was tense, even for Bruce, his jaw always tight, his eyes redder than usual. Alfred just looked tired.

Percy didn't mention the letter. He wanted to, but he saw the look in Bruce’s eyes every time the phone rang and it wasn't Jason. He saw Alfred meticulously polishing the silverware, his hands shaking slightly. He decided he wouldn’t worry them yet. Jason said he'd call.

| · · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·| 

It was Tuesday, a full week later. Percy was sitting on the floor of the library, flipping through a textbook on ancient Greek mythology, when the air suddenly felt heavy and still.

He heard the deep, familiar rumble of Bruce Wayne’s voice, but it wasn’t loud. It was a low, broken sound that carried all the way from the drawing room.

Percy snapped the book shut and stood up, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He crept into the hallway.

Bruce was standing by the fireplace, one hand pressed against the marble mantle, his head bowed. Alfred was next to him, his usually impeccably straight posture slumping, one hand resting awkwardly on Bruce’s shoulder.

Dick was on the velvet sofa, his face pale, his eyes wide and vacant, staring at nothing.

Percy’s feet moved on their own, carrying him into the room. He walked right up to Dick and tugged on his sleeve.

"Dick?" Percy whispered, his voice small. "Where’s Jason? Did he call?"

Dick blinked slowly, turning his wide, unfocused eyes onto Percy. He opened his mouth, but only a sharp, choked noise came out before he buried his face in his hands.

It was Bruce who finally spoke. He took a long, shuddering breath, his voice barely a rasp.

"Percy," he said, and the way he said Percy's name was wrong. It sounded like he was trying to carry something too heavy. He knelt down slowly, his face etched with a kind of pain Percy didn't have a word for. Bruce's usually steady hands trembled as he reached out, not to hug him, but to steady himself on Percy's small shoulders.

"Jason… Jason won’t be coming home," Bruce said, his gaze fixed on the floor. He swallowed hard. "He was in an accident. Away from here. A terrible, terrible accident. We… we lost him, son."

Percy stood there, frozen. Eleven years old, he knew about monsters and loss, but he didn't know about this. This silence. This stillness.

He’ll be back.

He won’t be coming home.

The words didn't connect. It was a cruel riddle he couldn't solve.

"No," Percy said simply, shaking his head. "He left me a note. He said he found his mom. He’s with his mom. He said he’d call."

He reached into his hoodie pocket, pulling out the folded, slightly crinkled letter. He held it out to Bruce, his lower lip trembling. "He can't be in an accident. He was looking for his family. That’s what he was doing."

Bruce took the note from Percy's hand. He unfolded it slowly, his eyes scanning the familiar script. When he looked back up at Percy, his eyes were wet, and they finally conveyed the terrifying truth.

"I’m so sorry, Percy," Bruce whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I’m so sorry we couldn't bring him home to you."

Percy dropped the letter on the floor. He didn't cry. The tears were trapped, frozen behind his eyes. He didn’t feel the pain yet, just a terrifying, hollow kind of shock. It was a strange, vast emptiness, as though the sea had simply drained away.

The pancakes. The bad jokes. The movie night. They were all gone.

Jason was never coming back.

His brother was never coming back.

Percy turned and ran. He ran until he reached Jason’s room, slammed the door shut, and collapsed onto the bed, burying his face in the pillow. He didn’t want to be Percy Jackson-Wayne anymore. He didn't want the silence. He didn’t want the note. He just wanted his older brother, the loud, reckless, annoying one, to come through the window and tell him it was all just a bad joke.

But the window stayed closed. And the room was silent.

And in that moment, under the weight of the silence, eleven-year-old Percy Jackson knew what a broken heart felt like. It felt like drowning.

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