Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Leslie Thompkins really hated life right now. No seriously, she was around 3 seconds away from cursing out every single God in the vain hope that it might either get her smited or get her point across. That point being: Stop fucking like rabbits and leaving random children to grow up in less than fair conditions. Or even, stop leaving children full stop.

Stephanie Brown wasn’t a stranger to Leslie, nor was she a random street kid. A superhero in her own right, despite what others may say, she was a good kid with a good heart who frequently helped out at the clinic when she had time.

And now she was butchered. Her body desecrated and mangled in Batman's arms. He didn’t shed a tear. Couldn’t. He had resigned himself to this fate long ago. He had already written her proverbial obituary the second he had seen her. He had seen this story before, all too aware of the way it ends.

Stephanie Brown's nearly dead body was placed on the operating table, a half-hearted glance sent by the dark knight imploring Leslie to do something. Anything to the girl who Thanatos already had his bony grip on. Nothing short of godly intervention would bring her back from the brink. She may as well have already been in Charon’s ferry, being ushered over the river of death.

And Godly intervention would never come for a regular mortal.

She watched his hunched shoulders leave, once he placed her down with the gentleness of a grieving man. His tenderness a reflection of his apologies, the ones he never got to air. The ones he would never get to tell her. He never said he was proud of her, not when she acted so much like him. He couldn’t get attached, couldn’t bear the thought of another dead robin. 

But it happened. And in Leslies mind and heart, it was because of his detachment. His grief blinded him to the reality where protecting himself only led to her death. The day he shut her out was the day he signed her death warrant. And Leslie was ashamed. Ashamed that this was the man she helped raise.

A coward when it came to emotions. A failure when it came to Stephanie Brown.

She watched him go. His cowl bloodied and grimy. He only spared her a glance when she called to him, her soft voice raw with emotion. “I’ll do what I can to make her comfortable,” She had said. Because that was all she could say, when her clinic was overflowing with the injured and the dead, when her patient was in that condition. 

He swallowed, she could see his throat bobbing, before disappearing into the hazy mist of the outside world, fumes and smoke engulfing him. Just because a 15 year old hero lay broken and dying in her clinic, does not mean that the horrors of Gotham were over. 

Leslie wished he could have stayed, wished, in a sick and horrible way, he could watch her die. For the consequences of his actions to haunt him. But she knew that wasn’t fair, and the consequences of his actions already haunted the streets, the gang war still raging strong. So she sighed, turning back into the room, stroking the girls hair, making do on her promise to make the girl comfortable as she slipped away.

The morphine bag was filled. The machinery in place. A medical euthanization in all but the name. Batman knew what he was asking for when she was delivered here, knew what he was forcing Leslie to do, knew the hurt that would consume her being as she prepared the medicine. She had minutes, maybe an hour if she fought (which she would, Leslie knew her indomitable spirit no matter how battered would hold on for a little longer), of suffering. This would be the only way. The only way Leslie would allow her young charge to go. No more hurt, she had enough of that for a lifetime.

But that wouldn’t happen. Didn’t happen.

Because the god of the sun, healing, and a plethora of other domains appeared with a gentle, yet sad, smile, a thermos of nectar, and a broken heart.

*    *    *

Between her fiance's stints in prison, Crystal was a shackled woman. Arthur Brown was an overbearing force of defiled nature. Slimy and oily, and all together too smarmy for her tastes. He was a quintessential stain on Gothams streets, one of a million really. Yet she stayed.

She stayed because he was safe. In a sense of the word. He was a schmoozing failed game show host by day, and criminal by night, with aspirations of villainy that made Crystal cringe and pretend she didn’t know anything about his illicit activities. Nothing about him screamed safety or stability. But he was.

He was a solid rock who was there when Crystal was becoming a nurse. When she was an acne riddled high schooler, beaten black and blue by her fathers heavy hands, the sterile sweetness of his drug-coated breath fanning her face as he wailed upon her.

Arthur was there, and did not turn away when the truth of the situation was revealed to him. With his hands, then uncalloused and so uncharacteristically soft, cradled around her face as he promised her a way out, she had flashes of the good life. She was wearing white, him in navy, as they had the gotham equivalent of the white picket fence and 2 and a half kids. 

He took her with him, out of the narrows, off the school yard, into the outer suburbs. With a small, shitty beat down house they called theirs, she lived without fear for the first time. She pursued her passions, as he did his. And that's when life began a stained spiral downwards. When the good life started slipping away. When the dream of normalcy began tearing away from her white knuckled grasp.

Small-time goon work became more ambitious, as his game show failed to land any decent numbers. Nights without him became more frequent, along with his rage induced outbursts. The small freedoms she reclaimed in the isolation of the cloud covered nights were ripped from her as he came with the dawn light.

He was an angry man, feeling himself too good for this place. For her. And a part of her agreed. What was she in the grand scheme of things, except an abused nurse barely scraping herself through college.

He was out for longer, came back angrier, till eventually nights stretched to days, which stretched to weeks. And all of a sudden she was getting frantic phone calls to bail him out of jail. Every second month. He was in and out, his stints never lasting too long. Yet in those weeks of her boyfriend-turned-fiancee-turned-whatever-the-fuck-they-had-become’s absence, she relished in the freedom of a life without an overbearing presence breathing down her neck.

She played piano for the first time in years during one of these breaks. A community centre down the road had a music room, and she allowed herself to feel. Allowed herself to dredge an ancient piece from the crevices of her memory box, and played. Like she had the eyes of 1000 people watching her. Like she was in the national orchestra, in an auditorium somewhere up north, not a crumbling building in the crime capital.

It was there she met him. So handsome with his golden hair, tanned complexion, and foreign features. He was a Greek musician, on holiday travelling around the US, partly for fun, partly to find a new muse.

His words were honey soaked as he complimented her playing, as he slipped onto the bench next to her, as he played alongside her, occasionally his soft hands brushing against her own as they played the day away.

It had been a few days, filled with smiling laughter, until he brought her to his apartment. A swanky thing on the nice end of town with its own grand piano settled into the corner, sleek and polished, looking wholly unused. A wonderful night turned into a wonderful week, where she learnt the minute details of the man named Apollo.

He played any instrument under the sun, but preferred the lyre. He had a special interest in healing, saying that if music ever failed him, he would become a doctor. He waxed poetry from the depths of his heart, yet refused to publish a single one, stating that they far too intimate to share with the rest of the world.

For that week, Crystal, who was so accustomed to misery and pain, who jumped ship from an abusive father, only to land on the docks of an abusive boyfriend, was happy. Undeniably so. She had become more than what she thought she could become. Contentedness swapped out for joy.

She didn’t suffer through her days, instead looking forward to dancing in the living room, cooking and eating great food, and listening to the songs her lover would sing for her. She believed him when he told her she was everything good in the world. That he had fallen in love with her spirit.

She believed him when he told her she’d never see him again.

She left the apartment and returned to find Arthurs waiting form, and 9 months later, when her beautiful baby girl was born with a mop of golden hair, that deep complexion, and those gorgeous eyes, bright blue in the crystalline clearness, she believed him when he told her that a part of him would always be with her.

Because that blonde was far too reflectant to be Arthurs. Eyes too bright. And most of all, the soul too pure.

*    *    *

She didn’t bow at his feet, nor grovel like so many gods wanted. The situation was far too fragile, too charged with unspoken emotions that hung heavily, like a lead weight on the usually spritely God. He looked to the girl with something akin to tortured pride, and Leslie was starkly aware she was now privy to a side of the God not many were so fortunate to witness. His eyes were coloured with a hint of paternal selfish satisfaction, for this girl was great, yet also marred with grief and loss, for the condition that it rendered her to.

And suddenly she felt stupid. Of course the God so terribly cruel to mortals had had a hand in creating a being of pure hope. Of course he must sully everything good in the world, for it is his impulse to do so. Of course Stephanie Brown was a child of the Gods, with her indomitable spirit and radiating kindness. Of course she was the daughter of Apollo, with her blinding smile and need to help others at any cost.

For a moment she could imagine a life where he watched her grow up. She was truly a carbon copy in physicality, with her golden hair, radiant tan and blinding smile, and perhaps too a hint in personality before the god had been corrupted by his hubris. She imagined a reality where the God before her got to hold his child and deliver her with the love she could see so plainly written in his eyes.  To congratulate her, and tell her of how happy she made him in the way she went about life. Of how she wasn’t just good enough, but instead great, and of how she was a hero through and through.

Her imagination did not lessen the constricting anger she felt at the knowledge that another God had sired a child and left them to rot. Despite Stephanie's continued heroic deeds, she did not garner the presence of her father, not until she was on the edge of the underworld, ready for a better (after)life.

She knew what he was going to ask of her. Knew why she appeared before him holding her own flask of nectar. “I cannot save her, not directly.” He croaked out. “But you can. You can save her.” He didn’t plead. Despite his obvious love, no matter how impure or twisted as most God’s paternal love is, he would not shatter his ego like that. But Leslie could read between the lines. Could tell in the way he almost shoved the thermos in her hand, and the darting glance between healer, medicine and patient.

He was the snake in the garden offering an unknowing Stephanie the forbidden fruit. The knowledge of the world, of the truth of her life. But where did Leslie fit into the story? Was she Adam, powerless to stop it? Or was she the tree, the sustenance of the parasitic bundle of Godly power, waiting for an unsuspecting wanderer to pass by.

Perhaps she was the snake, incurring the wrath of the world upon a lonely girl, broken and afraid. She certainly felt it as she lifted the girl up, so tenderly, yet feeling as though her hands were poison, impossibly killing the girl as she raised the cup to her slack mouth. Her very essence felt toxic as she forced it down her throat, for however sweet it tasted, it would only bring a more bitter, colder life than the one she's had to endure already. Most certainly, a more bitter, colder death as well.

*    *    *

Chiron was surprised to see the weathered face of the healer, her presence unannounced, not like she usually does. She usually gives him a warning, the sourness of her presence dampening his own. She didn’t want to come back every year, but she felt she had a duty to the kin of her forefathers, for they were innocent lambs led to the slaughter, and it was her that would shepherd them away from the blade.

She offered her expertise, giving campers vaccinations, antidotes, and updated healing practices to the most devoted of the Apollo campers. She was an ingenious doctor, her knowledge revered by even Chiron. He wished she would stay, but he knew there were too many bad memories here. Too many friends lost. Too many promises to those in the mortal realm, her affinity for saving lives better suited for the bustling metropolis of hell on earth. She feels more fulfilled there, and he can respect that.

She didn’t let him greet her, instead nodding to the frame in her arms. “I’ve got a dying half blood. She needs a whole lot of nectar, and even more rest.”

Chiron harriedly called Argus, who moved to take the child from her arms, though Leslie did not allow it. She held onto her fiercely, like a lioness protecting her young, nearly baring her teeth at the offending arm that reached for her girl. The message was clear. This was Leslies patient. Her responsibility. She was only here because of the DNA that ran in the girl's veins.

Chiron could respect that, and instead ushered her through the big house, onto the infirmary wing, which was thankfully empty. He watched in carefully concealed interest as the woman laid the girl down with such tenderness, the love in her eyes so clear. The bitterness of what she reminded her of was also far too clear.

There was a certain care Leslie had when she removed the tattered suit, blood soaked and grimy. There was a certain grief she held when she revealed the injuries to chiron. Chiron, who had been around for millennia, had seen every type of battle injury. Chiron, who knew this was not that. This was the work of something far more nefarious, something so sick and vile it had no place occurring in life, let alone to a child.

This was torture, plain as day. 

And while some monsters, like the kindly ones, partook, maybe even revelled, in the torture of demigods, none did so with such a sloppy human touch. For the deepest evils were rooted in human nature, and this was undoubtedly a very deep evil. 

“You are close with this girl?” Chiron gently inquired, placing a comforting hand on his arguably favourite student-in-this-field’s back, radiating a grandfatherly warmth as she worked. She grinded herbs, mixed them with ambrosia, nectar, and modern human medicine, creating a balm to the most obvious of the wounds: Gun shots, knife punctures, and crude holes.

“Stephanie is,” Leslie started, eyes tracking along the girls almost peaceful look. “She’s a true blue Gothamite, through and through. Sharp as a dagger, quick as a whip, and far too kind. She interned under me. I came to care about her, like she was my own.”

“Her mortal parent?” Chiron further pushed.

“Her mother,” Leslie grimaced, all too aware of the complexity known as crystal brown. “She’s a good woman, but.” How do you find the words to explain her shortcomings while simultaneously conveying the crucial understanding why it happened? “She’s troubled. She loves Steph, but she struggles with addiction because of her late husband. A rotten piece of work he was.” That was it in its most simple form. Crystal loves Stephanie like only a mother can, but she also hurts her like only a mother can. Too many unspoken grievances, manic pleas of desperation, and stretches of borderline emotional absence paves the 2’s relationship, marring it.

“And her father? Claimed or not?”

“You know I can't say that aloud lest I be smited in case he doesn’t want people to know.” She wished it was a joke, but the Gods have struck down mortals for less serious slights on their character. “But he did visit her, he’s the reason she’s here right now, came to the hospital and everything. I think you’ve seen enough demigods to know who her father is, you’re not daft.”

“Let's hope his,” He coughed into his fist. “Graciousness extends to a public claiming.”

She only hummed in assent as she finished applying bandages, before placing another container of nectar beside her bed, in case the girl wakes up and needs a shot of energy and/ or more godly healing. “If she wakes up when I'm not here, the first thing you're doing is calling me. I don't care if she’s more out of it than fresh-god-Dionysus at an olympus party, you call me.”

And with that, and all the dramatics of the Greek pantheon, she turned on her heel and strided out of the room, skulking around to try and find her part-time apprentices. The little rat-bags needed some borderline maternal love from a non-toxic source, and she was chock-full of that

*    *    *

Stephanie Brown's eyes fluttered open, all too aware of the slightly-but-not-completely-numbed pain echoing across her body. She felt it in her bones, like years of exhaustion had built up, infecting the crevices of her body. She could barely hazard to keep her eyes open, let alone push herself up. All she wanted to do was allow herself to succumb to weakness, slumping even further into the pillowy cloud she had found herself resting on.

Resting. Pillowy clouds. Comfort

Her eyes zapped open once more, this time her brain bypassing her bodies weakness, forcing her to slowly, very fucking slowly as it was all that her strength would allow, to push herself up. Her hands sunk into the comfortable bed she found herself in, and all she could think was that the room was far too bright to be anywhere near gotham.

Once she propped herself up, she noted that she was in an infirmary-like room, a row of beds beside and across from her, all with undrawn privacy sheets. It was starkly empty, though she could vaguely hear the shouts of young children. It was off-putting, as the voices seemed so light. It wasn’t the screams of terror she was used to hearing in gotham, the ones she hated hearing. These were normal. Like the day she went to metropolis and went to one of their playgrounds. It was nice.

It was also not black masks lair, which gave it bonus points in the not-terrible category.

She looked down to see her spoiler costume was not on her body. Fuck. Instead, she had been dressed in a hideously bright orange shirt, and non-descript shorts. Weird, but a little bit better than a hospital gown. Her utility belt was also taken from her, along with the various holsters and weapons she had strapped to herself.

To her left there was a window with the blinds partially down. They looked beaten and dusty, the window itself reminiscent of an early 20th century home. Nothing like the much older gothic architecture found in gotham. Another tick in the not-gotham box. There was also  a bedside table, a partially melted ice-drink laying next to her, with a small sticky note.

She looked at the drink first, noting the little amounts of condensation, and the just barely melting ice. Whoever had put it there had been here very recently, and probably wouldn’t come back for a while, giving her more time to figure out an escape plan if need be.

She next looked at the note. It was in a foreign language, but her brain still zapped, allowing her to understand the writing. 

‘It’ll make you feel better, puzzle-bird, come find me when your ready
Leslie’

No one else knew of that nickname, not even Bruce. Leslie had names for all the robins, saying it was tradition. It was born from her love for puzzles, the older doctor often finding her playing with handheld ones, a symptom from the childhood she had with her father. Leslie helped separate that love for brain stimulation from the memories of her father, hence Stephanie loving the nickname. She never found out her name for Dick or Jason, only Tim, which she relentlessly teased him with after. Detective-bird, how fitting.

All that to say, it was most likely from the older woman, and therefore the drink was likely to be safe to drink. Still, she gave it an experimental swirl, and a customary sniff, trying to remember Bruce's hasty lessons on poison detection. They were rushed, but it went something along the lines of: something something bitter, sweet or sour, something something. 

It did not smell like any of that, instead smelling like her mum waffles, the kind she would make when she was sober and present, wanting to make it up to stephanie. It was warm and comforting, and had the faintest hint of the good maple syrup they could get at the corner shop, not the generic shit.

She gave it a tentative sip, finding it tasted exactly like what it smelled like. The same sweetness, encapsulated within a drink. It made her feel warm on the inside, the bone deep pain being chased away, like a monster retreating into the night. Before she knew it, the entire glass was drained clean. 

She looked into the empty glass once more. She had had a warm drink, yet the ice had not melted. She knew what she tasted, yet her brain could not comprehend what she was seeing. It tasted exactly like her mums cooking, had even felt warm and gooey, and like her mother had placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. Yet the glass was cold, and her mother wasn’t here.

She gulped, the glass almost slipping from her hands, before she had half a mind to catch it, not wanting to bring any attention to the fact she was awake. She needed to get up, find Leslie, and figure out what was going on. Last time she checked, she had been in a crummy warehouse on the verge of death, with black masks perverted figure looming over her, the drill in his hand looking more like a gun than anything else. That was when the blood loss got to her, but she could have sworn she felt the cold barrel of a gun pushed against her ribs.

And now she was here, in a nice place, with comfortable beds and drinks that defied the laws of thermodynamics. She needed answers. 

She slipped her legs from the bed, her feet bare, before gently putting them on the hardwood floors, ensuring as little weight was out down as possible. Like an agile cat, she bounded across the room, quick and light, before slipping through the open doorway, revealing a hallway.

The walls were a faded white, trimming a light birch. A far cry from Gothams dark wood and stone.

She crept down the hall, until she reached the end, on her left another hallway, leading to more doors, and another window. This time she could see green grass and trees. They were far away from any city then. On her right, a staircase, which she bustled down, periodically stopping and scanning her surroundings. The house was empty as far as she could tell, no other soul in sight. Yet she knew someone must be close, her drink was fresh after all.

The front door was the first thing she came across once she reached the final stair. It was wide open, and Stephanie could see other children, clad in similar outfits to her, running around. They had bright smiles on their faces as they bathed in the sun, enjoying the whims of a sunny day. 

She stepped out of the relative safety of the house, finding herself on a wrap around porch, a table with occupants to her right. A pudgy man with red rimmed eyes, flushed cheeks and a distinct unkemptness that reminded her far too much of her mother when she went through her admittedly frequent ‘rough’ patches. That man had ‘addict’ written all over his face.

The next one was an older man, a full beard that was neatly trimmed accompanying a weathered face, wrinkles prominent. His hair, much more maintained than drunky next to him, fell to his shoulders, and a wiry pair of spectacles sat on the bridge of his nose. He had the warm feeling of a grandfather, reminiscent of how Time would describe agent A whenever she wasn’t there. Stephanie didn’t know how to feel.

The final occupant of the table had the shiny grey hair of her favourite doctor. She was also clad in the orange shirt, this one layered under a medical coat. She had her own glasses on as she scanned the cards in her hand. She appeared to be locked in an intense card game, the card combination in her hands indicative of the game. Pinochle. Not her favourite, but Arthur always made her play it when his goon squad came around. She thinks he enjoyed watching her outsmart everyone but him.

She allowed herself to observe for a moment more, before taking the chair next to Leslie, watching in measured glee as the women faced her, a worried smile worming itself onto her aged skin, grey eyes lighting up in delight. “Stepahnie,” She started, her voice filled with relief. “It's good to see you up and awake, and not on the verge of death.”

“It feels good to be, you know,” Stpehnaie sighed. “Alive. But where are we? What happened to me? What happened to Gotham?”

“Gotham is… not as bad. The war is slowing down.” Leslie wasn’t going to say why. To tell the young girl that her nearly murderer has major control over most of the city. “As for us, after everything, Batman brought you to me, but I knew I needed some extra help for your recovery.” She was also not going to tell her that Batman had given up on her, asking for euthanization. Stephanie had been through enough. “We’re in New York, camp half-blood to be exact.”

At Stephanie's confused look, Leslie sighed, knowing she needed to bite the bullet, fully revealing the world of myths, legends and monsters to her. “How much do you know about Greek mythology?”

*    *    *

At some point during the initial storytelling, the 2 other occupants had excused themselves, the man in the wheelchair going inside, and the skulking addict wandering in behind him, muttering something about diet cokes. This left Stephanie and Leslie to converse, and stew together.

It wasn’t exactly surprising that the Greek Gods existed, because, well, Wonder Woman. Steph hadn’t gotten to meet her personally, but she'd met Wonder Girl, and knew that Nightwing was friends with Troia.
So really, them still kicking isn’t the biggest shock in the world. However, how she was involved, that's when it got a little bit harder to grasp. “So, me, Stephanie Brown, regular Gothamite, supposed daughter of an f-grade super villain, is actually the kid of an ancient God, who actually might be worse than arthur?”

Leslie grimaced, but nodded. “Gods mingle with mortals more than you may think. We’ve got a known Greek Demigod population of around 120 strong.”

“Shit.” Stephanie sighed, her shaking hands clenching and unclenching. “So do you know who my… biological dad is, then?”

“Yes, but unfortunately, I’m not allowed to say. Gods are fickle, for a child to know their parentage, and come to their full power, they must be claimed first.”

“Claimed?” Stephanie questioned, not liking the tone Leslie had taken. She sounded almost sorrowful.

“A public acknowledgement that you are that God’s kid. Without it, you are a lonely wanderer, an unclaimed, an unacknowledged. Those who remain unclaimed are often lacking in a defined identity, and become lonely without definitive knowledge of their parentage. Its a sad reality, one which has gotten better in recent years.”

“Why don’t Gods claim their kids, surely it doesn't take that long?” Stephanie questioned, fearing for not only her own future, but also the lives of those that had gone for so long unclaimed. Living an isolated life as an unwanted hurt, alot.

“Some forget about their kids. For some it is politically inconvenient to acknowledge them. Others do it out of fear for the backlash on them and the child.” Leslie was angry, she could tell from the tone of her voice, and the crinkle between her eyes. She did a very good job at hiding it, but Stephanie could read faces. She had seen all of Leslies emotive range, the patterns her body and verbal language took to when feeling certain things. What she felt was rage.

“I see.” Stephanie said quietly. “Is that why I was… left for so long.?” She questioned.

Leslie grimaced, understanding the underlying question. Is that why she was left with a monster as a father for so long. Is that why she was left to suffer? “Yes. That and the nature of Gotham herself. Most demigods attract ancient monsters, a result of their parentage, with a scent. It increases with age, most demigods finding out about the Greek word in their tween years. However, the stink of Gotham is so terribly mortal it can hide even the strongest of demigods, ergo, you were safe from the mythological monsters.” 

“Safe from one type of monster,” Stephanie grumbled. “Exposed to another.”

Leslie laughed sullenly. “Yes well, unfortunately now you know of your true heritage, your scent increases. Not enough to break through Gothams haze, but enough to be a very big homing beacon if you were to step out of it.” She sighed, a deep rumbling thing that was so tortured Stephanie wanted to reach out a hand, and tell her that it wasn’t her fault, that everything would be okay. “I want you to stay here and train.”

Stephanie frowned, becoming defensive. “I have trained.” Her words were clipped, tone cold. She had been told by so many people she needed to train more. They all saw her as some scrappy kid, ignoring her talents in favour of homing in on her flaws. There was no repercussion to Batman who refused to train her.

“A different kind of training. Stephanie I know you can hold your own, and you certainly have a leg up on most of the kids here in hand to hand, but you need to learn other things. Weapons training, survival training.” Leslie grabbed her shoulder. “It’ll be different this time around, the instructors here are good. They’ll see you for how amazing you are”

Stephanie let in a shuddered breath, before nodding, seeing the merit behind her words, regretting the defensive stance she took when she knew that Leslie was just trying to help her. “Now run along to cabin 11, they’ll know you're the new kid I told them about.” Leslie shoo’d her off with a smile, watching the young girl nod and wander down the stairs, along the worn path. “And Stephanie,” She called out.

The blonde turned, her head tilting in a quizzical way. “You're great, I need you to know that. Don’t let anyone here bring you down. Never again.” 

Stephanie allowed a small and sad smile to grace her face, before nodding and turning away. Leslie couldn’t help but be reminded of how stupid she had been. As the sun reflected off the blonde's skin, her aura practically radiating gold, she looked the most Godly she had ever seen a demigod look, bar maybe Percy Jackson.

And that scared her.

Chapter Text

Steph didn’t exactly know what to expect when it came to summer camp. Gotham didn’t exactly have the welcoming spirit to host a sleep-away summer camp, not that she’d trust it if there was. It would most likely be a front for a smuggling ring. Or human trafficking. Or both. It was a new experience, though one that she was enjoying so far.

She was far away from Black mask. Far away from Batman. And far away from the depressing overcast days, and dreary nights of Gotham. The sun here actually shined upon the valley, the temperature not too hot. The air not too humid. It was perfect, and Stephanie was savouring the golden rays on her skin. They made her feel energized in a way she hadn’t felt in a long while. 

The winding dirt path went on for a while, taking her past volleyball courts and basketball hoops, the campers sparing her only fleeting glances. They too were clad in the bright coloured shirt, which she figured out had ‘camp half blood’ on the front, with a flying pegasus underneath. Which was cool as hell. Or Hades? Underworld? Whatever, she’d keep her modern idioms, she didn't need to piss off any Gods by using their names in vain or whatever. She’d rather not get struck down, thank you very much.

She passed a sprawling strawberry field, watching people with goat legs! Actual goat legs! Playing enchanting music on pipes, fruits blooming under the magic of whatever nature spells they were conjuring up. Other kids, demigods, were caressing the plants, a haze of dark green spilling from their hands, flowers blooming and fruit growing at an alarmingly quick pace. 

Actually magic. Greek magic. Must be some plant God's kids.

Stephanie went through her catalogue of Greek gods, which was shorter than she would have liked. Carpo, perhaps. Demeter even.

Further along, they reached an area, a group of kids led by an older teen practicing fighting with swords. He went through all the kids, a kind smile on his face as he corrected technique, footwork and grips. It seemed as if they were going through a disarming drill, and Stephanie couldn’t help but be comparative to the way Batman taught. There were no cowls, angry words, or threats of abandonment. Instead there was a steady hand, soft smiles, and easy-going laughs from both the kids and the instructor.

It made her feel warm inside. And perhaps a little bit jealous.

After that, she reached what must be the cabins. There were 12 main ones, all arranged in a ‘U’, but she could spy smaller free standing ones dotted behind or next to, these ones a lot more new, however, also a lot smaller. They must be considered less important, was her grimaced thought.

The 2 cabins in the centre were his and her cabins, all sprawling grand marble and bronze. These wer marked 1 and 2. Cabin one was the biggest and bulkiest of the twelve. Its polished bronze doors shimmered like a hologram, so that from different angles lightning bolts seemed to streak across them. Cabin two was more graceful somehow, with slimmer columns garlanded with pomegranates and flowers. The walls were carved with images of peacocks. The king and queen of the gods. Of course their cabins were the gaudiest.

Cabin 3 was long and low, the outer walls were of rough gray stone studded with pieces of seashell and coral, as if the slabs had been hewn straight from the bottom of the ocean floor. It was less grand than the other 2, boasting a quiet humbleness, like a fisherman's shack. It held the distinct smell of the salty ocean, and was almost calming.

Cabin 4, beside Hera's cabin, was an earthy brown in colour, and had grass growing off of the roof, and tomato vines covering the walls. Wildflowers covered the surroundings, and Stephanie Couldn't help but smile at the small greenhouse that could be seen peeking up from behind the cabin. It was cool to see how individualized each building was.

Cabin 5 had a nasty red paint job, a mounted hogs head above the door, and gnarly barbed wire covering the roof. The door was open, and stephanie could spy kids wrestling while jamming out to heavy metal. It was much more her speed, and reminded her of the boxing gym she attended back in gotham. All bright smiles as they partook in a more controlled form of violence.

Cabin 6 was more boring than the others, a regular grey building with silky curtains, traces of greek architecture in the marble pillaring, and elegant stonemasonry. Attached to it was a smaller building, Greek lettering above saying it was a library. 

Cabin 7 was… an eyesore, to put it lightly. Under the brilliant sunlights, the walls looked to be made of solid gold, reflecting all the rays directly into her eyes. It was bright, with not much else being able to be garnered due to the blinding nature of its exterior.

8 was similar, however it was a deep silver, like moonlight, and had a very maternal feeling to it. 9 was a factory, plain and simple, with chimneys billowing smoke, and open workshops beside the main red brick cabin. Cabin 10 was a massive white house with pink and blue accenting, the smell of perfume lingering. The people hanging around were stunning. Drop dead gorgeous. Almost intimidating with their sharp eyes and even sharper smiles. There was a feralness in their grace that had Stephanie slightly intimidated.

Cabin 11, her destination, looked like a regular summer camp cabin, or atleast one that she would see in shows. Peeling paint and a rickety roof, the wood was beaten and dented, and a crooked caduceus hung over the door. It was not imposing like the other, instead having its own charm.

The door was wide open, allowing her to see multiple bunks inside, most of them being unmade and unkept, belongings tacked onto the walls next to them, or shoved onto overflowing bedside tables. Trinkets of all varieties littered the cabin, along with people, both older and younger.

Her steps were light as she approached the door, taking a second to lean on the doorframe to appreciate the mundanity of the sight before her. Some kids lay on bunks, reading books. There was a large group on the floor playing some sort of gambling game, the pot filled with random knick knacks and golden coins.

There was a pin board on the far wall, a trio of kids surrounding it, pointing at different photos of the other cabins, secret passages, and schematics for- glitter bombs? Those had the label of cabin 9, with a container attached to the board with funds written in bold letters on it. There was a small collection of the gold coins. A currency here, then.

She knocked lightly on the doorframe, smiling mischievously at the startled jumps she got from a few of the occupants. One of the kids reading a book -native plants and their intricacies- rolled off of the bed, dropping the book carelessly on the mattress beside him, grinning widely at her. He emerged to his full height, towering over her. He was on the leaner side, with an agile build, reminiscent of Dick. She analyzed his body language, remembering what Cass had taught her, paired with her own pattern recognition. 

He was open, in a way that he was hiding something. He reminded her of the more charismatic criminals she had faced. The Harley Quinns: all mischief with minimal malice. His grin was nothing short of troublemaking, even if there was a weight there. A weight that looked scarily similar to when Tim would come back after a rough night. A weight that she saw in the mirror whenever the mask dropped. A weight Bruce Wayne had, especially when he looked at her.

“Hey-a! I'm Travis. Travis Stoll, Counselor of this fine establishment,” He introduced himself, sticking out a hand. “I assume you're new here?”

Stephanie met his hand with a firm handshake, smiling at his lightness. “Uh yeah, I'm the new kid. Stephanie Brown, at your service. Leslie sent me.”

His blue eyes lit up in recognition. “Oh! You’re Gotham girl. That makes sense. You're sort of infamous among us counselors.” Travis said, scratching the back of his neck in awkwardness.

Stephanie frowned. “In a good way, I hope?”

Travis nodded quickly, realizing how his previous words sounded. “Oh fu- I mean frick,” His eyes darted to one of the youngest members, who couldn’t be older than 9. “Frick yeah, it's not everyday we get a,” He leaned in close “A gods damned law breaking vigilante joining us. You're basically my new personal hero. I read about that prank you pulled on that cluemaster guys goons, it's actually on our wall of fame.”

Stephanie leaned around him and noted that on the wall, a newspaper clipping had been cut out and pinned in place. A report on her latest vigilante stint, this time the wicked way spoiler had terrorized cluemasters goons, with copious amounts of glitter and spray paint. The police found them in the morning miserable and shiny, and she had gained a cult of teenage followers obsessed with her methods of goon-humiliation. It seemed that it had reached New York, and the secret society of Godspawn. How fun.

“Huh, didn’t realize New York got Gotham news.” Stephanie hummed.

“Nah, it doesn’t, but my dad, Hermes if you didn’t know, drops off interesting news every week.” Travis shrugged, as if he wasn’t saying the Greek Messenger God(!) delivered him his newspaper. “The PVC glue was a great touch really.”

Stephanie smiled bashfully, waving the boy off. “Not even my best work, I actually managed to sneak itching powder into the penguins -a big time criminal boss- underwear, and pin the blame on another guy. Truly, a glorious month.” She let out an exhaled laugh, remembering that particular stint. 

She managed to pin the blame on the riddler, putting a tacky riddle on the wall. All of the riddlers' subsequent plans for the month were somehow leaked to the press the night before it was planned to go down. Truly it was a glorious affair, and one of her greatest achievements, especially considering she had only been spoiler for a couple of months at that point.

Travis grinned with her, eyes gleaming with something she couldn’t quite place. Perhaps a look of pride. “I reckon you’ll fit right in.”

And with that, he led her over to a ready made bottom bunk, with some amenities on the bed. Stephanie had been given some spare camp shirts, shorts, and a few toiletries, and led over to a bunk on the far side of the room. The hermes cabin had a couple spares, allegedly a far cry from a couple years back. Apparently the unclaimed kids, and even a couple of the Hermes kids had to sleep in sleeping bags on the floor because of how packed it was. Now only a few unclaimed remained.

He then gave her a run down of the inner politics of camp, and how the parentage system worked. Campers had certain traits that were generally a pretty reliable point towards their parentage. Sword instructor guy, who Stephanie learnt was Percy Jackson and was kind of a big deal around these parts, had sea green eyes that swirled like the ocean, and an affinity for canoe racing, ergo, a son of poseidon.

The Hermes kids had a penchant for mischief, like her, with elvish features, usually a smattering of freckles and pointed ears, which she did not. Most had brown or sandy blonde hair, and a moderate tan, but a far cry from her own golden skin

The aphrodite kids were even more beautiful than the average demigod (which was seriously unfair, because her average peer was ridiculously gorgeous), and had a strange ability to understand exactly what people's type was. 

Unfortunately for her, as the week progressed on, she sort of failed at being normal. She was just kind of decent at a lot of things, more so than the average newbie campers were usually. She knew how to fight already, she had built up her skills from a young age, and refined them fairly well. She was strong and agile, and stealthy enough to fit in anywhere. She had a brain that was always ticking, thirsting for stimulation in the form of a puzzle or a riddle. She had a basic knowledge of engineering because of her not-dad. She was just sort of an enigma that the older campers couldn’t figure out, and had no stand out skills that were indicative of her parentage.

Travis had privately told her that a lot of the counsellors had a lot of money riding on her claiming. That her apparent moderately decentness at a bunch of things had confused the others. She acted, and sounded like a hermes kid, but didn’t have the telltale features of one. It was sort of funny, she had to admit, having a bunch of randoms that she’s never spoken a word to come up to her and ask invasive questions in such a light tone.

‘Hey, how's the weather! Which one of your parents is absent?’

It did get annoying after a while, constantly being perceived, especially by the stormy grey eyes she had come to associate with the Athena cabin. Those guys did not understand boundaries or even social cues in that situation. It was a bit off putting, but luckily, Percy Jackson had come to her sort-of-rescue. Percy Jackson, as in big deal Percy Jackson. He was considered the twice over savior of Olympus, and a major prophecy kid. He was a monster slaying, badass, and as it turned out, a really nice guy actually.

She got cornered by 2 of the more pushy Athena kids when she was training a blunt sword against a dummy, by herself, which really was her first mistake. They came up to her, and started inspecting her, muttering to themselves. It was creepy, and made her feel like a commodity instead of a person. She was visibly uncomfortable, and moved to walk away, when Percy appeared, pen-sword in hand, a faux-easy smile marring his scarred face.

“Why don’t you two go, me and Stephanie have a sword fighting class, and i’d rather we not have any accidents occurring because of prying campers. Now go on, scram, your older sister’s having an architecture presentation in the library, go drool over middle century stone masonry and leave her alone.” His voice turned dark at the end as he sent the younger 2 packing, smiling apologetically at her in the process.

“Um thank you, you didn’t have to do that, I was probably gonna walk away anyways.” Stephanie smiled smally, the discomfort still radiating. It reminded her far too much of Black Masks inquisitive stare as he eyed her down like a fresh piece of meat.

“No harm no foul,” Percy said, shrugging his shoulders. “I uh- had a pretty rough start to camp life too. The vultures stalked me for a while.” he joked lightly. “I had someone who looked out for me, and I want to pay that forward.” his shoulders hunched, like he was reliving a bad memory, before he snapped back into the present, a confident mask falling over his melancholy demeanor. “I actually did want to run through some sword techniques with you anyways, if that's okay.” He had a small smile on his face, like he was actually shy.

She just nodded her assent lightly, “I would actually really like that, I sort of have no idea what I'm doing.”

He just chuckled with her, a sort of shocked look on his face when she admitted that. “Huh, you certainly know some shit for a complete beginner. Your instincts must be good, which is phenomenal. That's really the first thing I have to teach you, always trust your instincts.”

And so, Percy Jackson began to tutor her in everything that's Greek. He took her sword fighting lessons (she was decent), taught her javelin throwing (she was pretty good), dagger fighting (less good), pegasus riding (she was shitting her pants the entire time), hand-to-hand (she aced). The only thing he couldn’t teach her was shooting with a bow, something about a stupid curse, but luckily for her she didn’t really need his help, she was sort of already pretty good despite never touching a bow, something which had the instructor grinning like a maniac.

Her days had fallen into some sort of routine. She woke up and ate with the hermes kids, then split after breakfast, taking private lessons with Percy, who had taken her under his wing. When morning lessons were finished, she took lunch with the hermes cabin, then had some downtime where she’d either hit the climbing wall, or find ways to be useful. The Hephaestus cabin had realized her chemistry background was invaluable when making certain alloys, and something called greek fire, a viscous green thing they kept in jars. Or perhaps it would be doing pranks with the hermes cabin, using the glitter bombs that Steph had managed to rig for a delayed deployment.

Then it was archery with a mix of the Apollo kids, and others like Steph who had taken to the long ranged form of weaponry.

After her own time was up, Percy once again showed up like a mother hen, picking his child up from school, before taking her to the library. There the Athena kids that she could tolerate, i.e. the ones that didn’t want to fasten her to a chair for experimentation, would have a group tutoring session on ancient and modern greek. Either that, or Percy would be running a class on battle tactics, apparently having picked up quite a bit in his time adventuring, as well as his time with the romans.

Roman demigods existed, apparently. They were in California though, so not really relevant to her.

Dinner was next, again with the Hermes cabin, who had really turned into her siblings by the one week mark. Seriously, they were a rambunctious bunch that Stephanie fell into place with almost immediately. They were unlike anyone Steph had ever met before, and they truly made sure she knew she was included, despite not actually being one of them. It was nice for people to go through that effort for her. With no ulterior motives other than wanting to be nice to her. Wanting to be her friend.
 
After that, they had a campfire, where she would harmonize with the Apollo kids, before hitting the hay with the rest of camp. Some would sneak out at various points in the night, avoiding the deadly harpies employed for security. Herself included in that lot, she often found herself on the roof of the cabin, enjoying the stars, or down on the beach, enjoying the waves. She couldn’t help but think of her mum or her friends in Gotham. Did they know she was alive, or did they think Black Mask had killed her? Did they grieve her, or was her life inconsequential in the grand scheme of things?

These questions played on her mind. She wasn’t able to contact the outside world, no phones allowed on the premises. She didn’t know if she even wanted to. She was healing here, not just physically. Her visible wounds, the ones that made her conscious of changing in front of anyone, had scarred over in a few days. Months of bodily functions done in a few days. There were no chronic consequences, only visual reminders of everything that had happened.

Mentally, it was great having a healthy support network. There weren't any expectations here, no mothers on the verge of a relapse, no criminal father, no mentor that undermined her at every chance and actively held hatred towards her, no ex-boyfriend who resented her for taking his place, or best friend that didn’t believe in her.

Here, Stephanie Brown was not a failure. She was never not good enough. She was never a pawn, nor dead weight slowing others down. She wasn’t too loud for their taste, or too weird for their palette. 

She was okay being herself. And that made her feel whole.

She could also talk to people about how she was feeling.

Sometimes Percy would be on the beach with her. He looked tired, most of the time, sleep evading him. He’d looked to the horizon, searching for something that would never come. Mostly they’d sit in silence, enjoying the quiet understanding of a night lost to nightmares. Other times they’d share quiet conversation, tid bits on the why.

Stephanie told him about spoiler. Her not-dad. Wanting to be a hero, but never being good enough. Always being a pawn, a replacement in other people's eyes. She realized why her life before had become so bleak. Stephanie Brown didn’t have an identity, not really. She was instead an amalgamation of what others thought her to be.

Percy gave good hugs, especially when she allowed herself the weakness of crying.

In turn, he told her of his life. His step-dad. The treatment he got at camp. The expectations others put on him. Percy Jackson was no longer him. Percy Jackson was an idea. It had been taken from him and given to the people, but what did that leave him with? A fragmented version of himself that no one wanted to see. No one wanted to see what happened after the soar. They saw icarus reaching for the sun, and ignored the reality of what had happened, instead clutching to that journey of greatness.

It left him isolated. Left to bear the brunt of the fall by himself.

Stephanie encouraged him to explore Just Percy, like she was exploring Just Steph. It was nice to have someone who understood her, even if they didn’t go through the same things. 

She told him of Black Mask, the intricate details she hadn’t even mustered enough courage to tell Leslie about. The power drills, and the knives, and the gun and the cold hands that made her feel sick in their tenderness.

He told her of tartarus, the fall, the poisonous air, and the many things that wanted him dead. He told her of his rapidly waning self control, of the way he allowed himself to become all that he wished to destroy. He told her of the curses, and what he saw when he left, the true form of the place, the thing that kept him up at night.

“Is it weird to say you remind me a little bit of myself?” Steph asked one night. They were looking up to the stars, Percy teaching her the constellations she wasn’t able to see in Gotham. Her favourite had to be the huntress, given the affectionate and soft way Percy talked about it.

He just laughed. “When I first saw you in the arena, I thought I was looking at a time warped version of myself. I knew that scrappy demeanour anywhere.” That was light. “You also uh, reminded me a bit of my own friend. Luke.” He was quiet for a second. “Son of Hermes, he protected me when I first got to camp. Good at everything, a little bit like you.” The last part was a tease, meant to lighten the situation, but there was too much hurt when he said his name.

“What happened to him?” she inquired

“He tried to kill me a bunch. Got wrapped up in doing Kronos’ dirty work, tried to overthrow the Gods.” The comparison between the 2 was not looking good. “He did it all for them though. He wanted a better life for everyone, a life where the unclaimed went claimed, and the minor Gods got recognition. He had a lot of love for us demigods, and at the end of the day, he stood up for me at every opportunity. He saw something in me.”

“Do you see something in me?” Stephanie tentatively asked.

“Yeah.” He paused. “I see a talent for anything you put your mind to. An indomitable spirit, and a razor sharp mind. I see fearlessness, and a love for life. And above all, and I truly mean above everything else, I see a kindness.” He gulped. “I see you Stephanie.”

“I see you too, Percy.” And it was true, wasn’t it. He was a lovely boy with a chip on his shoulder and an innocence that was taken from him at far too young an age. He’s had his life stolen from him, instead becoming a projection of identities others push onto him. He was a bright kid who had his light snuffed out by those who were supposed to support him. 

He had his wings clipped, just like her. But perhaps they can learn to adapt to a flightless life. Or even, maybe, learn to grow those wings back. For the fall is brutal, but it is in their nature to rise above it once more, for no matter how hard they hit the ground, they must always push themselves back up on shaky arms. If not for themselves, then for others. Their bodies may lay broken, but their spirits will remain unbent. They were forged in the same fire, tempered in the same water. They were two arms of the same body, two faces of one mind. One in the same, a shattered hero rusting on their iron throne, the doors to their kingdom melded shut.

Perhaps with the others' help those doors may open once more, for what is a king without his subjects, A hero without a journey. A person without a heart.

They lay side by side, and Stephanie couldn’t help but wonder if a mirror had been placed between the two. She didn’t see swirling green eyes, dark eyebags, or jet black hair. She only saw a spark, an ember reignited, one that had been cold and dead for far too long. She saw herself within him, as he saw himself within her, and he made a vow, silent yet no less powerful, that that spark would never go out again.

*    *    *

Love is the forebearer of power.

Gods had favourites. Of course they did, are you kidding? Really, it was such a game trying to figure which one of their demigod kids was the favourite, because there always was one.

For some, it was easy. Poseidon and his one kid a century schtick made the game no fun. Percy Jackson was obviously his favourite mortal kid, but with no sibling competition, that's a no brainer. That being said, he probably has cemented himself in Poseidon's permanent top ranking with the glory he's brought, so look out future kids, you'll have the everlasting shadow of a double great prophecy kid, one of a handful of mortals to make it out of tartarus alive, and a person who was offered godhood yet turned it down looming over you. That's got to be rough.

Hephaestus was really cut up over the Beckendorf kid. His death had happened about 2 years prior, and the guy was still moping about it. You'd think with a prophecy kid he'd switch tunes, but nope, it was all Beckendorf and his sacrifice and his brilliant star crossed love act. That was one that was surprising, still holding onto a dead kid, not very many of the gods did that, usually swapping them out when they rusted.

Hermes was in a similar boat. He probably won't be getting over Luke any time soon. Though the less said about that particular case the better, the would-be-overthrower of the Gods was an enigma. Caused so much suffering, yet branded a hero by the one he did so much damage to. Paraded as the prodigal son by the one he hated.

Athena was obviously over the moon for her dear Annabeth. Retriever of the Athena parthenos, subject of that gods darned prophecy, and the official architect for Olympus. That girl was going in the history books, therefore Athena was by extension. And there's nothing more the wisdom goddess loved than a little bit of recognition for her greatness. Really, the pride ran strong, though in all fairness, it was justified in this case.

For Apollo? he'd had some doozy kids, if he does say so himself. Great healers, musicians, archers, really all of his best qualities embodied so fully. There was Michael Yew and Lee Fletcher: the archers who never would be. A tragic end to a short life of greatness. Perhaps even Will Solace, a caring boy who lived and breathed providing care for others. They all were true embodiments of his single domains, therefore they must be his favourites, right?

Well. Maybe not.

There was a certain fondness he held for the scrappy Gothamite kid with a mouth that ran a mile a minute, and a daunting weight on her shoulders. She was a hero. Not a Greek one, fated by the gods, called upon by a prophecy. She chose to put on a cowl, stalk the nights and help people. And isn't that a sight to behold? The god who taints all that he touches. The god who poisons. The god who takes and takes, having a hand in creating something so willful, so all encompassingly good.

She's not like his other kids, not traditionally. She's not confined to one aspect. She's not bolted to the infirmary, not reliant on a bow, nor does she ignore her musical side. She helps where she's needed, she fights like a street kid, all flying hands and manic energy, yet she still preserves the gentleness to lovingly play a Beethoven piece in the morning. She's wildly sarcastic, has a chip on her shoulder, and a dark streak. She's also been tempered, weathered and beaten, yet she still stands every day, and isn't that a sight to behold? She has an undeniable light within her, burning so bright that even Apollo god of light sometimes struggles to look at it all in its entirety. 

All's this to say, Apollo has also fallen into the category of God with a favourite child. And isn't it plain as day to see, with his gentle gaze and loving stare. If there ever was a mortal child that captured his heart in its entirety, it would be Stephanie Brown. 

Chapter Text

Maybe her dad was a little bit obvious. It’s really not her fault, okay! She was still a little hung up on the almost dying thing, and maybe a little bit off kilter in her deductive reasoning. If Bruce were to find out about her abysmal failure in pattern recognition, maybe he’d be a little bit justified in his hatred towards her. It was a little embarrassing, but cut the living dead girl a little bit of slack. If you had been in her situation, you probably would have missed the signs too.

Her new normalcy was almost nice. Percy cultivated the love for fighting she had, allowing her to express it in so many different ways. Sword fighting being one of them. Especially sword fighting, if she’s being honest. There was something so fulfilling after a long morning of hacking and slashing, the leather of the grip weathering calluses into her hands. A map of experience she liked to trace absentmindedly, an artwork within itself.

She felt stronger, physically and emotionally. 

She’d never been fitter. Seriously, she was convinced there was something in the air here. Maybe the Gods let off a special magic that made the demigods grow, or maybe it was something that had triggered when she found out about her heritage. The average demigod was tall. Not quite wonder woman tall, but she towered over even superman, so that wasn’t really surprising. It seemed that she had inherited that specific trait. Before she knew it she had shot up, reaching almost Percy’s eye level.

Her body had changed, her very physiology had been rewired, and her being felt different. It wasn’t a sudden shift, but it wasn’t any less prominent. Over the weeks at camp, training both her mind and her body, steeling herself in a way she hadn’t before, she grew. Like a metal worker hammering out her impurities, Percy Jackson moulded her to be better. Stronger and faster, Percy bent the steel of Stephanies soul, sharpening her wit and tempering her mind.

She was solid metal, her skin hard, her smile harder. Because even with the new hard edges of built muscle, there was a lightness that hadn't existed in a long time. Maybe it was the symptom of having a mentor that looked at her with so much affection and respect. Maybe it was having a horde of sibling-figures who took to her like a moth to a flame.

She had reached a solid equilibrium in the hermes cabin. A new normal that made her feel fulfilled, which is really the most she could ask for.

And then she got claimed.

* * *

Capture the flag fridays had become a personal favourite to her, especially when the hermes cabin were allowed to team up with the ares cabin, which was apparently only once in a blue moon. Having Clarisse not trying to shish-kabob her every minute was the biggest relief in life. Seriously, the girl had skill, a wickedly sharp spear, and a no bullshit attitude that made sure she didn’t go easy on the new kid.

It also helped that the older girl had a grudging respect for her. Being able to throw a good punch really endears oneself to the cabin of the war god. Score.

Ergo, Clarisse held only a tiny bit of scepticism when she told her she was super quick and sneaky, better fit for a less direct attack on the flag, and instead more of a controlled and sideways approach.

Percy had shown her a map of the forest at some point, for some strategic thing. She was less interested in the lesson, and more of the deeply detailed map, magicked to constantly reflect the state of the forest. She noted the sprawling tall trees, thick and sturdy, so similar to the crumbling slums of gothams skyline, with their precarious edges, and promise of injury if you were to miscalculate a single step.

She knew how to navigate her way in places like that, she had practically spent her whole childhood finding a little happiness in the cracking rooftops, leaping and bounding from edge to edge. Then she became a vigilante, and she wasn’t just confined to the little neighborhoods around her home. She could soar off the highest of heights, with the wind whistling in her ears, the cool gotham air biting any exposed skin. It was glorious.

She sort of missed it. The freedom that came with the cape. She was a part of something bigger than herself when the sun set. She was no longer just Stephanie Brown, daughter of cluemaster, she was spoiler, the hero of the outer suburbs.

Then she was Robin, and wasn’t that an ideal?

But it's best not to linger on that time. And if she really thinks about it, she is part of something bigger here as well. She’s part of the Greek mythological world, and isn't that something? A hidden society of demigods, sent on quests for glory, baring the ideals of a long dead civilization, keeping the fire of humanity alive.

She wasn’t just a regular hero. She was a Greek hero. Or at least, she could be, if the world went to shit again, like Percy had told her about. She hoped that didn’t happen, there was no burning desire to trade pain and suffering for eternal glory, she wasn’t that selfish. The point though, is that she could be a Greek hero, a thing of the legends, a piece of the myths. An entirely new ballpark, common thugs traded out for actual, magical monsters grabbed straight from the story books.

If she got a quest, that is. Which again, no earth toppling desire to get one. She was recovering, and tempering herself not in preparation for the future, but for protection from the past.

She was content, right now, to be a local legend in camp. And that starts with getting the flag for her team to win capture the flag, which is why she found herself bounding from branch to branch, her footfalls light as she hurled her weight forward. The wood beneath her feet barely shook as she scampered along, a clear route in her mind.

She didn’t falter once, instead revelling in the freedom that comes with the biting air of the late afternoon nipping at her ears, singing a haunting tune with every meter she soared. Faintly, in the distance, she could hear the clashing of steel, and the roar of battle as the ground troops met in a head to head battle, the vain hope of overpowering the other side spurring on the mosh-pit.

Percy, despite his expertise in that sort of stuff, elected to instead guard the flag, finding the more passive and calculating role more suited to challenging himself. She felt a bit at ease, knowing she didn’t have to battle him. She wasn't so daft to think she could beat the best swordsman the camp had seen in 3 centuries, even if she trained under him.

She just had to deal with the Athena cabin and their brilliant minds. Fuck.

And the Apollo cabin who could hit a moving bullet with their arrows. Double fuck.

But Steph was nothing if not persistent in the face of an impossible challenge, and she had a knack for beating the odds, no matter how much they battered her first. She was the spectacular spoiler, known in her territory, that she painstakingly carved out for herself, for her iron will and uncanny ability to stand up after getting her shit rocked. The harder the punch, the harder she fought back. The bigger the fall, the more rabid she became.

Her bounding was light and effortless, ‘enemy’ campers passing below her none the wiser. She arced out wide, remembering the strong outcrop of trees that circled around Zeus' fist. Wide trunked and sturdy that allowed her to scramble, gliding and flipping with nothing more than a barely seen shake of leaves. 

Her grip was steady as the pile of stones came into view, foot soldiers clad in heavy breastplates, red plumes wielding wickedly sharp swords and spears flooding the area. There had to be 6 of them at least, and no doubt more archers hiding the area. She could already pinpoint the bright ginger hair of Kayla Knowles, perched on a lower branch, bow at the ready.

Stephanie, behind the stones, saw only the backs of the campers, as she made a mental tally of each. 2 bright orange shirts in the trees slightly behind the flag. They’ll see her if she tries to take it. 6 on the floor who could no doubt maim her if she got too close. More in the trees ahead of the flag. They had good vantage points, just not high enough to intercept Stephanie, or really see her coming.

If she took out the guards behind, it would be like stealing candy from a baby, slipping in and out. She could fire some blunted arrows at their heads, hoping to knock them out, but the sounds of their falling bodies will definitely alert the others to her position. She can’t get too close, they’ll definitely hear her. Taking people out covertly was never her strong suit, despite her nightly activities. More of a jump into the fray kind of girl. That wasn’t really possible with multiple veterans and enhanced kids who have been training for most of their lives though.

She needed to use her wits, environment, and tools. And her training. From before here that is. Her makeshift utility belt, holding a length of rope and homemade smoke bombs, was definitely going to be invaluable. Screw you Percy! It doesn’t matter if it looks a bit goofy with her outfit, it is totally going to win them the game. She’s definitely going to rub it in if she manages to pull this off.

She scans the environment once more, not focusing on the people, instead the trees themselves that were surrounding the flag. She was looking for sturdy branches that were close enough to the flag for a smash and grab, and high enough for her to keep her anonymity as she set up. Stephanie Brown was cooking up a hairbrained, on the fritz idea that just might get her killed. She was gonna tarzan it.

She was used to using grappling hooks. Cass had taught her well, the feeling of shooting through the air an addicting feeling rivalled only by the exhilarating fall that came after. This time she would just have to manually secure her anchor point.

And after a quick scan, she found the perfect branch. A bit close to the archers, but much higher, so she hopes she can get away with it. It was sort of a perfect height for the length she had, and so that she will still have a fair bit of swing once she grabs the flag to propel herself over the infantry, and, if tyche was on her side, past the campers, giving her enough force to send her flying to either one of the lower branches, or to the underbrush.

She began her climb, shimmying up the tree, holding her breath as she could hear the campers underneath her coughing and talking to each other.

The branches swayed under her feet, and she had to cling to the trunk with her legs bracketed either side as she tied the rope over a branch, a move that had her thighs shaking in exertion. Her hands shook slightly as she secured the knot, careful to keep the majority of the rope in her hand and out of eye sight of the guards. How stupid would it be if she got caught before pulling it off.

She gave it a tug, happy with the security, before meandering down, unspooling the rope as she moved back, figuring out a route that won't have her going jaw first into a branch. In her concentration, she didn’t notice a particularly weak branch that she back tracked onto, only realizing her mistake when she heard the tell tale cracking of wood splintering under her feet.

She leapt backwards, but it was too late, the branch snapped clearly off the tree, rocketing towards the floor, clattering on the surrounding trunks as it ripped through leaves like a hot knife through butter. Or a bowling ball through pins.

The guards whipped their heads around, eyes wide, and mouth open as they began to shout, reaching for their quivers. Or more accurately, the razor sharp arrow heads that will turn her into a pincushion if she didn’t do something in the next split second.

She immediately fumbled for her smoke bombs, grabbing 3 and meticulously chucking them, 2 hitting the trunks next to the closest guards, the other imploding against the rocks with harsh bangs. The entire surrounding was immediately flooded with light purple smoke, a little touch she had added. An homage to where she came from if you will.

The 2 guards cried out, coughing, trying to warn their friends of the very obvious intruder, blindly firing their arrows. It was too late.

Stephanie launched herself off of the branch, soaring through the air, cutting through the smoke as the wind whistled. For a split second she was in the euphoria of free fall, gravity taking due course and pulling her towards the soil beneath. This was quickly juxtaposed with the sharp jutting of the rope gaining tension, and she began her swing, blindly tearing through hazy forests. One hand had the rope gripped firmly, the other reached out blindly in a vain attempt to find the flag in this blindness.

Tyche was on her side, smiling down on her, as she reached the lowest point of her swing, feet just barely grazing stone, her fingers made fleeting contact with fabric, but fleeting contact was all she needed. She clenched, fisting the flag as she dislodged it from the rocks, dragging it through the air, breaking through the thick cloud of smoke into the open air.

Still swinging, with an alarming velocity, the campers could only just swing at her, feet, most missing, with one sword taking the sole off of her shoe, just barely grazing the bottom of her foot, making a shallow incision she knows will hurt like a bitch in the coming days. They could only get off one swing as she rocketed past them, whooping in joy as she continued the upswing, reaching the apex.

She was ready to use her momentum to launch herself onto a secure branch, though in a second, right before she reached the apex, she no longer had tension. The rope had split, and she was uselessly holding the end as she fell. She wasn’t going to land on the branch.

She twisted her body, gripping the flag between her teeth and shooting both arms up, hands gripping splintering bark in a move that would make nightwing himself proud. She swung on the thankfully sturdy off shoot, propelling herself further as she arced through the air, landing in an awkward roll.

She spared a glance behind her, taking stock of the arrow lodged in a trunk. The motherfuckers shot her rope. What assholes.

Before she could bemoan the near death experience, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on edge, and she had enough wits to bend to the side, feeling the arrow clip her ear, a firm reminder to get moving. 

She scrambled forwards, taking a more direct path to get out of dodge, ripping up soft soil in her wake. She could hear the harried shouts of enemy campers, warning those ahead of her impending arrival. It was no use, she was too fast and too slippery, dodging and weaving as she made her way through the main battle field. 

Blue plumed whooped and hollered, batting and slashing at any reds that tried to get too close. They tried to carve a path for her, but when the fighting was too intense, bodies shoulder to shoulder as they shared blood, sweat, and tears, Stephanie pushed herself off the ground,feet making contact with the shoulders of friends and foe alike as she used them like a spring board.

Her legs were burning with intense fatigue, but she was so close, the boundary line within 50 metres, Percy's fighting form as he expertly danced between 3 older campers, a swirling force of elegance and destruction, a demon wearing the skin of a human. The blade was an extension of his, a deadly sweeping thing of horrors. 

He only let up as he heard the screams of elation, spotting her stumbling body, flag in hand, army of opponents nipping at her heels, arrows whizzing past, desperate slashes of swords and thrusts of spears that just barely missed, cutting the fabrics of her shirt.

The distance closed, and she pushed her body harder.

She needed this. Needed the win. Craved the validation.

Selfishly, she wanted to be recognised. Too long had she sat abandoned in the shadows, mentors and personal heroes alike skipping over her, as if she were an unsightly parasite they were unable to shake off. A leech best to be ignored, in the childish scheme of out of sight, out of mind.

Stephanie Brown was a force to be reckoned with, the sole of one shoe missing, bow strung over her shoulder, and flag gripped desperately. In her dirty, bruised, bleeding glory, she hurled herself over the creek, landing in the water with a splash and a grunt as she clawed herself onto the other side of the shore, flag glittering and shimmering in her hand as it changed from a blood red to a deep blue.

Chiron cantered out from the woods and blew the conch horn. The game was over. They’d won.

Cheering and cries ripped through the air, campers swarming her, their thundering steps shaking the very earth as their hands pulled her out of the dirt, hauling her onto shoulders in elation. Her cheeks hurt from smiling as she pumped the flag in the air, making her friends cheer even louder, much to the chagrin of those on the other side of the creek, who looked to be sulking after getting flogged by a newbie.

Unceremoniously, she was dumped in front of Percy, who stood with a small smile on his face, next to Chiron, who looked to her with nothing short of fascination, a curious smile on his face as he scanned her over. 

“So, did I do okay, teach?” She teasingly asked, an undercurrent of seriousness tingeing the words. She wanted the validation from her mentor, him to tell her that she did good this time.

He got that, only smiling a bit brighter as he ruffled her hair. “You did great, kid. Never doubted you for a second.”

He took her arm, the one with the flag dangling from her grip, and raised it high to the sea of blue, eliciting a final cheer, a final cheer that tapered down in an instant, a small gasp emanating as they stared at something just beyond her.

She looked up to see the glow of a symbol, bright golden and nearly blinding, yet instantly recognizable. It was a golden lyre, the symbol of Apollo. Oh fuck.

“It is determined,” Chiron announced. All around her, campers started kneeling, even the red team, though they didn’t look happy about it. “Apollo,” said Chiron. “Healer, prophet, god of the arts. Hail, Stephanie Brown, Daughter of the Sun God.”

Oh no.
 
* * *

The reality of leaving the status quo behind hadn’t hit her until she stood in the middle of cabin 7, her belongings snug in a small bag as the counsellor, Will Solace who she’s had a handful of interactions with, led her to her bunk. She supposed she can’t really just refer to him as ‘just a councilor’, that's her brother. Her actual, blood-not-blood brother. (The godly DNA was weird and the complexities in the family tree were convoluted) She had siblings, plural.

Not the sibling bond she had created in the hermes cabin. Honest to god siblings, who actually looked like her, with their strong noses, deep tans, bright blue eyes and a certain knack for music, archery and medicine.

They shared the same dad. For an only child, this was a weird experience.

She was lucky, though, because they were all so unbelievably nice. Kayla especially, who welcomed her with a firm clap on the back, and a demand for her to teach her how to scale the trees so well. Who clung to her side, happy to have a girl the same age, who was all bruised knuckles and fighting spirit.

Who smiled softly at her when things became all too much, and she crumpled on her bed, the events of the day barrelling into her full force, sleep ripping her consciousness from her body.

She expected darkness, expected the weight of exhaustion fueled sleep. Instead she was met with the vivid image of grey skies, the foul stench of a rotting city, and the crumbling architecture of the place she called home. 

She found herself in the heart of Gotham cemetery, flanked by a heavy silence and the downtrodden face of Cassandra Cain.