Chapter Text
Percy did not know the last good day was the last good day.
It felt ordinary. That was the cruel part.
Jason snuck him a candy bar at breakfast. Alfred pretended not to notice. Bruce left early with his jaw tight, already thinking about something Percy could not see. The sky over Gotham was gray, and it just looked tired.
Percy followed Jason through the manor halls, steps light, matching his pace without thinking. He had gotten good at that. At staying close without being in the way so as not upset his newly found brother.
“Bruce says I gotta do patrol early tonight,” Jason said, tugging on his jacket. “You gonna be okay?”
Percy nodded. “I can stay in my room.”
Jason made a face. “You always say that.”
Percy shrugged. “I mean it.”
Jason crouched in front of him, eyes level. “Hey, you know you can come find Alfred, or Bruce, or me when I am back.”
Percy hesitated. “Do you have to go?”
Jason smiled, crooked and familiar. “Yeah, it’s kinda my thing.”
Percy wanted to say “don’t” . He wanted to say “stay”. He wanted to say Gotham eats people, and I do not want it to eat you, too.
Instead, he nodded.
That night, Percy dreamed of laughter.
The kind that was high and sharp and wrong.
He woke with his heart pounding, hands clenched in the sheets. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed on his ears until they ached.
He slid out of bed and padded into the hall.
Lights glowed faintly from the cave.
That was strange.
Percy stood at the top of the stairs, fingers curling into the railing. His chest felt tight, like something was pulling it inward.
“Jason,” he called softly.
No answer.
He went down anyway.
Bruce stood at the console, shoulders rigid. Alfred was beside him, with one of his hands braced on the table. The screens showed a warehouse with broken glass and blood on the concrete.
Too much blood.
Percy’s vision tunneled.
“What happened?” he asked.
No one answered him right away.
Bruce turned slowly. His face looked wrong. Empty. Like something important had been ripped out and left a hole.
“Percy,” Bruce said. His voice was steady, which scared Percy more than if his voice had shaken. “You should go back upstairs.”
“Where is Jason?” Percy asked.
Alfred closed his eyes.
Percy’s ears started ringing.
“Where is he?” Percy repeated, louder now. His hands were shaking. He shoved them into his pockets to hide it.
Bruce swallowed. “There was an incident.”
“No,” Percy said. “That is not an answer.”
Bruce knelt in front of him with his big, tough, calloused hands. He was careful, almost as if Percy might shatter. “Jason was hurt.”
Percy waited. He knew better than to interrupt. He had learned that adults told the truth more slowly than kids did.
“Hurt how?” Percy whispered his voice betraying his emotions.
Bruce did not answer.
The ringing in Percy’s ears grew louder. The cave felt too small. The walls pressed in. The air felt thick and wet, like before a storm.
Alfred spoke instead. “The Joker.”
The name hit Percy like a slap.
“No,” Percy said immediately. “No. Batman always stops him.”
Bruce flinched.
“He was too late,” Alfred said quietly.
The world tilted.
Percy stumbled forward, grabbed the edge of the console to keep from falling. The screens blurred. The blood looked black now.
“He is alive, though,” Percy said. “He has to be alive. He always comes back.”
Bruce reached for him.
Percy shoved his hand away.
“Say it,” Percy demanded. His voice cracked. “Say it.”
Bruce closed his eyes.
“Jason is dead,” he said.
Something inside Percy snapped.
It did not feel loud; it instead felt deep. Like something breaking far below the surface where no one could see it.
“No,” Percy said again, but the word felt wrong in his mouth. Useless.
The cave lights flickered.
Water burst from a nearby pipe, spraying hard enough to dent metal. Another followed. Then another. Alarms blared.
Percy screamed.
It tore out of him, raw and ugly, like he was trying to rip his chest open and pull the pain out with his hands.
“I told him not to go,” Percy sobbed. “I told him I did not like rain. I should have told him not to go.”
Bruce grabbed him then, arms wrapping tight around his shaking body.
Percy fought him. Kicked. Hit his chest with small, useless fists.
“Kill him,” Percy screamed. “He killed Jason. Kill him!”
Bruce held on, jaw clenched, with his eyes burning. “I cannot.”
That was the moment Percy stopped being a child.
Not all at once. Not cleanly.
But something essential cracked.
“You could,” Percy said hoarsely. “You just do not want to.”
The water surged harder, flooding the floor. Consoles sparked. Screens went dark.
Alfred shouted something Percy did not hear.
All Percy could hear was laughter.
High and sharp and wrong.
He collapsed against Bruce, strength gone, sobbing so hard it hurt to breathe.
Jason was gone.
And the man who killed him was still alive.
The water drained slowly, leaving the cave soaked and ruined.
Percy went quiet in Bruce’s arms.
Too quiet.
And somewhere deep inside him, something cold and heavy settled into place.
After Jason died, Percy became very good at being still.
At first, everyone thought that meant he was coping.
He did not cry anymore, and he did not yell. He did not throw things or ask questions or wake up screaming in the night. He followed the rules perfectly. Ate when told. Slept when told. Sat where he was placed.
Adults liked his quiet grief. It made them feel useful.
Inside, Percy felt like a room after a fire. The walls still stood, but everything that made it warm was gone, a hollow like space replaced it. He moved through his days like he was already a ghost, watching his own body from far away.
Jason should be here, a voice kept saying.
Percy learned to ignore it.
Bruce tried to talk to him.
They sat together in the study again, the same chairs, the same clock ticking as if nothing important had happened. Bruce spoke gently, like Percy was made of thin glass.
“Are you doing alright? ” Bruce said.
Percy stared at the bookshelf. He counted the spines. One blue, one brown, another black, and lastly one red. He had found that he liked patterns; patterns did not die.
“I am fine.” Percy clipped.
Bruce frowned. “You do not sound fine.”
Percy shrugged. “I am not loud.”
Bruce closed his eyes for a second. “That is not what I meant.”
Percy did not know what Bruce meant. Or maybe he did, and did not want to say it.
If he let the feelings out, they would drown him.
That was what it felt like. Like being pulled under something thick and endless, lungs burning, body panicking, until the only way to survive was to stop struggling.
So Percy stopped.
He stopped asking when Jason was coming back. He stopped going into Jason’s room. He stopped touching the jacket on the chair, even though he wanted to curl up in it and never leave.
He stopped feeling angry at Bruce, too.
Anger took energy. Percy did not have much left.
At night, he dreamed of water again, but it was different now. It did not rush or roar. It sat heavy and unmoving, pressing down on him until he could barely move his arms.
He woke tired every morning.
Schoolwork hadnt piled up. Tutors praised him for his initiative. Alfred praised him for his manners. Bruce praised him for resilience.
Percy hated that word.
Resilience meant something broke, and you learned how to live around it.
Sometimes Percy sat in the bathroom with the door locked and stared at the sink. He would turn the tap on and off, watching the water carefully, like it was an animal that might bite him.
Nothing happened.
That scared him more than when stuff did.
Because when the water moved, at least it meant something noticed him.
Weeks passed, then months.
Gotham moved on.
Crime statistics shifted. Headlines changed. New villains appeared. Jason’s name faded out of conversations, replaced with newer tragedies that needed attention.
Percy did not fade.
He shrank.
His clothes hung looser. His shoulders curled inward. He learned how to walk quietly enough that no one noticed him unless he wanted them to.
Bruce noticed anyway.
One night, Bruce stopped Percy in the hall.
“You have not laughed in three months,” Bruce said.
Percy blinked. “I laugh.”
Bruce shook his head, “Not really.”
Percy thought about it. He could not remember the last time his chest had felt light.
“If you really cared, you would have avenged Jason,” Percy said angrily. “But now look at us, Jokers alive and Jasons dead.”
Bruce looked like Percy had punched him.
“You know why I can’t do that,” Bruce said softly.
Percy did not understand why.
The water incidents slowed.
Not because Percy had control. Because he had nothing strong enough to pull on it anymore. He experienced no joy, no panic, just a flat, endless quiet.
Jason had said once that Percy fought the water when he threw rocks.
Now, Percy did not fight anything.
He avoided mirrors. When he did catch his reflection, his eyes looked too dark for a kid. Too calm. Like he had already decided how the world worked and did not need convincing.
At ten years old, Percy stopped believing adults could fix things.
That belief died with Jason.
The night Bruce came back bleeding again, Percy did not run to him.
He watched from the stairs as Alfred cleaned wounds and Bruce hissed through clenched teeth. He felt nothing, no fear, no anger, just a distant observation.
This is what happens, Percy thought. This is how Gotham eats people.
Bruce noticed Percy watching.
“You should not see this,” Bruce said.
Percy tilted his head. “You always come back.”
Bruce froze.
“Jason did not,” Percy said.
Silence filled the cave.
Bruce opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Percy turned and went back upstairs.
That was the moment Bruce understood something was deeply wrong.
But he still did not understand how far Percy had already gone inside himself.
Percy lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling.
He thought about Jason. About his laugh. About the way he always said Percy would be okay.
“I am okay,” Percy whispered, testing the words.
They sounded like a lie.
But lies were useful. Lies kept people from asking questions.
And Percy did not want anyone to ask what was happening inside him.
Because if he opened that door, he was afraid the water would come back.
And this time, it might not stop.
Two years after Percy arrived at the manor.
Percy did not plan to run away.
Planning required wanting something on the other side. Percy did not want anything anymore. He just knew he could not stay.
The decision came to him slowly, like a thought sinking through mud. Not all at once. Not with panic. Just a steady knowing that if he stayed in Wayne Manor long enough, something inside him would finish going numb, and he would never feel anything again.
He did not want that.
Feeling hurt, but it meant Jason had existed.
Percy packed at night.
He used his school backpack. The blue one with the broken zipper that always caught on the fabric. He folded his clothes badly, because it did not matter if they wrinkled. He packed socks, a hoodie, and his toothbrush. He almost packed the jacket from Jason’s room and then froze with his hand on the door.
He shut it instead.
If he took it, he might never leave.
Percy sat on the floor of his room afterward, staring at the bag. His heart beat too fast for something that felt so quiet.
“I am not doing anything wrong,” he whispered to himself. “I am just going.”
No one answered.
He waited until the manor slept.
He knew its rhythms by now when Alfred turned off the last light, when and Bruce disappeared into the cave. When the house settled and creaked like it was exhaling.
Percy slipped out of his room in socks, backpack slung over one shoulder. The hallway felt longer than usual. The portraits watched him go.
He paused outside Bruce’s door.
For a second, he imagined knocking. Imagined Bruce opening it, tired and confused. Imagined saying I cannot stay and hearing Bruce say okay.
But Bruce would not say okay.
Bruce would say stay. Be safe. Let me help.
Bruce had helped Jason die.
Percy walked past.
The front door was heavy. Percy had watched Alfred open it enough times to know where to push. It creaked anyway, just a little. Percy froze, breath held tight, heart hammering.
Nothing happened.
He stepped outside.
The night air felt wet against his skin. Gotham smelled like rain and oil and old metal. The city loomed, tall and uncaring.
Percy stood on the steps for a long moment, staring back at the manor.
It looked peaceful. Like nothing bad had ever happened inside it.
That made him angry in a quiet way.
He turned and went down the drive.
He did not know where he was going.
He just walked.
The farther he got from the manor, the lighter his chest felt. Not better. Just less tight. Like he could breathe without remembering Jason every second.
Streetlights flickered overhead. Cars hissed past. Percy kept to the sidewalks, head down, hands shoved in his hoodie sleeves.
He felt very small.
People did not look at him much. Gotham had taught its residents how to ignore things that did not belong.
That helped.
Rain started falling an hour later.
Percy cursed under his breath and pulled his hood up, shoulders hunching. He did not run. Running made him noticeable. He walked faster instead, counting steps to keep his mind busy.
Do not think about Jason. Do not think about Bruce. Do not think about the cave.
The rain soaked through his shoes anyway.
He found a bus stop with a cracked plastic cover and sat down, hugging his backpack to his chest. The rain drummed on the shelter roof, loud and close.
Percy squeezed his eyes shut.
“Please,” he whispered, not sure who he was talking to. “Please do not do anything.”
The water pooled at the curb, rising just a little higher than it should have.
Percy opened his eyes and stared at it.
“No,” he said quietly. “I did not ask.”
The water stilled.
His throat burned.
He stayed at the bus stop until morning, drifting in and out of sleep, waking every time a car passed too close. When the sun rose, it did not make Gotham kinder. Just uglier.
Percy bought a bus ticket with the money he had saved from his allowance. He did not care where it went; he just picked one that was far.
The bus smelled like old seats and too many people. Percy sat by the window, pressing his forehead to the glass as the city slid past.
Wayne Manor disappeared behind concrete and smoke.
Percy felt something twist in his chest. Not regret. Something sadder.
He thought about Bruce waking up and realizing the house was too quiet again.
He thought about Alfred finding the empty room.
He did not think about Jason.
If he did, he might turn around.
The bus crossed a bridge.
Water stretched below it, dark and endless.
Percy flinched and looked away.
“Leave me alone,” he whispered.
The bus kept going.
By the time Percy got off, he was somewhere unfamiliar. Trees instead of towers. Air that smelled like dirt and leaves instead of oil.
His legs hurt. His stomach hurt. Everything hurt.
But he was not empty anymore.
He was scared.
And fear, Percy realized distantly, meant he was still alive.
He adjusted his backpack and started walking again, toward a place he did not know, pulled by a feeling he could not explain and did not trust.
Behind him, far away, Gotham kept breathing.
Ahead of him, something waited.
Percy walked for a long time before he realized he was lost.
Not lost, like he did not know which way to go. Lost, like the world had quietly changed around him and he had not noticed when it happened.
The air felt different. Thicker somehow. Like breathing through warm water. Trees crowded closer together, their leaves whispering even when there was no wind. The road narrowed until it stopped being a road at all and turned into dirt and broken stones.
Percy slowed.
His shoes were ruined. His socks squished when he walked. His backpack felt heavier with every step, even though nothing new was inside it.
I should turn back, he thought.
He did not.
Something tugged at him, low in his chest. Not like the water. This felt dull and steady, like a compass pointing somewhere he did not want to go but could not ignore.
The smell hit him first.
Rotten and wet, like meat left out too long.
Percy gagged and covered his nose with his sleeve; his heart started to beat faster. Gotham had taught him that bad smells meant bad things.
He heard breathing.
Not human.
It was loud and wet and angry, like whatever was making it had never learned how to calm down.
Percy froze.
Do not run, his brain told him. Running makes things chase you.
The trees ahead shook.
Something huge moved between them.
Percy took a step back. Then another.
A shape burst out of the woods.
Percy screamed.
It was massive. Taller than Bruce. Wider than the Batmobile. Its head was wrong. A bull’s head, huge and snarling, eyes burning red. Its body was thick with muscle and scars, skin dark and rough like old leather. Steam puffed from its nostrils as it snorted.
Percy’s legs locked.
This is not real, he thought desperately. This is what happens when you do not sleep. This is a nightmare.
The thing lowered its head and charged.
Percy ran.
Branches slapped his face. Roots caught at his feet. His lungs burned almost immediately, breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps.
It was gaining on him.
He could hear hooves pounding behind him, heavy and fast. The ground shook with every step.
“Go away,” Percy cried, tears blurring his vision. “Please go away.”
Something hot brushed his back. Pain exploded across his shoulder as he tumbled forward, hitting the ground hard.
The monster roared.
Percy scrambled, hands slipping in the dirt. His fingers closed around something solid.
A horn.
It had broken off when the creature charged through the trees earlier, lodged in the ground like a jagged knife.
Percy did not think.
Thinking took too long.
He turned and swung.
The horn pierced deep into the creature’s chest. Black blood sprayed, thick and foul. The monster screamed, a sound so loud it hurt Percy’s ears.
It staggered, eyes wide with shock.
Percy shoved harder, screaming back, fear and rage twisting together inside him until he did not know which was which.
The monster dissolved.
Not fell. Not collapsed.
It burned away into ash and smoke, leaving nothing but the horn in Percy’s hands and a scorched patch of ground.
Percy stood there shaking.
His hands were slick with black blood that faded into nothing as he stared.
“I did not mean to,” he whispered.
His knees gave out.
He sat in the dirt and cried until his chest hurt and his throat burned and his head felt light.
That was when he saw it, across the hill, past the trees, there was a valley.
Green and bright and wrong in the way dreams were wrong. Cabins stood in a circle, each one different, colorful, impossible. Smoke curled from chimneys. Laughter drifted faintly in the air.
And above it all, barely visible, shimmered something like a wall made of light.
Percy stared.
His head throbbed. His body ached. His hands still shook.
None of this makes sense, he thought.
A girl appeared at the edge of the hill.
She had blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail and eyes sharp as broken glass. She took one look at Percy, at the horn, at the ash, and swore.
“You are kidding me,” she said.
Percy tried to stand and failed.
The girl ran toward him anyway.
“You made it past the Minotaur,” she said, disbelief clear in her voice. “You should not have survived that.”
Percy hugged his backpack tighter, suddenly afraid of her too. “I want to go home.”
Her expression softened just a little. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Me too, but you are safe here. I promise.”
Safe.
The word felt strange.
Percy looked back at the woods where the monster had come from.
Nothing moved.
He looked at the valley again.
Something deep in his chest twisted, not like the water, not like anger. Like recognition he did not understand.
He was ten years old.
He had killed a monster with his bare hands.
And somehow, impossibly, he had crossed into a world that felt like it had been waiting for him.
Bruce noticed the silence first.
Wayne Manor always had silence, but this was different. This silence was hollow. Like a sound that had been removed instead of never existing.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs longer than necessary, listening.
No soft footsteps. No door opening and closing. No quiet movement that meant Percy was awake before he was supposed to be.
Bruce’s chest tightened.
“Percy,” he called.
His voice echoed back at him, too loud.
Bruce climbed the stairs two at a time.
Percy’s door was open.
The bed was empty.
At first, Bruce told himself Percy was in the bathroom. Or the kitchen. Or hiding somewhere stupid because children sometimes did that when they were hurting.
Then he saw the closet.
Too neat.
Bruce crossed the room slowly. He opened the closet door anyway. Empty hangers swayed slightly, disturbed recently. The dresser drawers were half open. Percy’s backpack was gone.
Bruce sat down hard on the edge of the bed.
No.
He forced himself to breathe. Forced himself to think. Panic was a luxury he did not allow himself.
He checked the bathroom. Empty.
Jason’s room was still closed. Bruce did not open it. He could not yet.
He moved through the manor methodically. Kitchen. Library. Gardens. Cave.
Nothing.
Alfred found him standing in the foyer, staring at the front door.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred said carefully. “Is something amiss?”
Bruce swallowed. His throat felt raw. “Percy is gone.”
Alfred did not ask how Bruce knew.
He closed his eyes instead.
The house felt wrong after that. Too large, too clean. Like it was mocking them.
Bruce reviewed the cameras.
Percy’s small figure appeared at the front door just after midnight. Percey with his hoodie too big, and his backpack slung wrong on one shoulder. He paused on the steps, staring back at the manor.
Bruce leaned closer to the screen.
“Stay,” he whispered, even though it had already happened.
Percy turned away.
Bruce watched the footage three times. Each time, it hurt worse.
Twelve years old, Bruce thought.
Twelve.
Bruce’s hands curled into fists.
He should have seen this coming. He should have said something different. He should have held Percy tighter that night in the cave. He should have explained why he did not kill the Joker. He should have protected Jason better. He should have protected Percy better.
The list never ended.
They found Percy’s room exactly as he left it. Bed made too neatly. Clothes folded badly in the dresser. A school worksheet half finished on the desk.
Bruce picked it up.
Jason’s name was written in the corner in blocky letters.
Bruce closed his eyes.
“I failed him,” Bruce said quietly.
Alfred stood beside him. “You loved him.”
Bruce shook his head. “That was not enough.”
Search teams went out. Police were notified. Bruce mobilized every resource he had without alerting the wrong people.
Hours passed.
Then days.
Every time a report came in about a child seen alone, Bruce’s heart seized. Every time it was not Percy, something inside him cracked a little more.
At night, Bruce stood outside Percy’s room and listened to nothing.
He remembered Percy sitting at the table swinging his feet because they did not touch the floor. Percy counting tiles. Percy watching exits. Percy flinching at rain.
Bruce remembered Percy asking why Batman let monsters live.
Bruce had not had a good answer.
Jason’s helmet still sat on the desk downstairs.
Bruce stared at it long after the cave lights dimmed.
“I did it again,” Bruce whispered. “I let another son walk away.”
The city outside kept breathing.
Gotham had taken Jason loudly.
It took Percy quietly.
The casket was too small.
Bruce had approved the measurements himself. He had stood in a sterile room and nodded while someone spoke gently, carefully, like Bruce Wayne might break if they used the wrong words.
Twelve years old, the man had said.
Bruce already knew.
The casket sat at the front of the chapel, polished dark wood, closed. Empty. Everyone knew it was empty. No one said it out loud.
If Batman could not find him, was he even alive.
Bruce sat in the front row alone.
Alfred stood behind him, one hand resting lightly on the back of the chair. It was the only thing keeping Bruce upright.
The room filled slowly. Not many people. Percy had not been here long enough to leave a wide mark. A few social workers. A teacher. Someone from the adoption agency. Dick, silent and rigid in the back. Tim, younger, eyes flicking constantly like he was searching for something that might appear if he looked hard enough.
Jason’s seat was empty.
Bruce kept glancing at the doors anyway.
Some part of him expected Percy to walk in late, hoodie too big, hair a mess, apologizing under his breath for causing trouble.
The doors stayed closed.
The officiant spoke. Words about loss. About remembrance. About a bright young soul taken too soon.
Bruce listened without hearing.
All he could think was that Percy hated crowds. Hated being looked at. Hated people talking about him like he was not there.
I am sorry, Bruce thought. I did not want this for you.
When it was time, Bruce stood.
Every eye in the room turned to him. Bruce Wayne. Billionaire. Philanthropist. Widower in all but name.
His hands shook slightly as he gripped the edges of the podium. He did not stop them. It did not matter.
“Percy Jackson came into my life during a difficult time,” Bruce said.
His voice sounded distant. Like it belonged to someone else.
“He was quiet. Watchful. He noticed things most people missed. He counted steps. He memorized exits. He asked questions that did not have easy answers.”
Bruce swallowed.
“He was twelve years old,” he said. “And he deserved more time than this world gave him.”
A murmur rippled through the room.
Bruce looked at the casket.
“I failed him,” he said softly.
Alfred stiffened behind him.
“I was supposed to protect him. I could not. I searched every place I knew how to search. As Bruce Wayne. As Batman.” His voice cracked slightly on the second title. “If I could have found him, I would have.”
The words tasted like ash.
“If Batman could not find him,” Bruce continued, quieter now, “then I have to accept that Percy may not be alive.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Final.
Bruce stepped down.
The service ended quickly after that. People filed out with careful condolences. Soft hands on his arm. Sad eyes. Apologies that meant nothing.
Bruce waited until the room was empty.
He approached the casket alone.
“I am sorry,” he whispered. “I should have held you tighter. I should have listened harder. I should have chosen you over the city for once.”
He rested his hand on the smooth wood.
“You were just a kid,” Bruce said. “You were allowed to run. I should have been the one to chase you.”
The burial was private.
The casket was lowered into the ground anyway.
Earth fell. Thump by thump. Final and awful.
Bruce did not flinch.
That night, Bruce stood in the Batcave long after the lights dimmed.
Percy’s file remained open on the main screen. Photos. Notes. Maps covered in red lines that led nowhere.
Alfred found him there near dawn.
“You do not have to stop looking,” Alfred said quietly.
Bruce stared at the screen.
“I already have,” he replied.
He closed the file.
Batman did not search for ghosts.
And Bruce Wayne had just buried another son.