Again, I am shocked by the waves of encouragement that slammed into me. They make me more than happy. It's more like an emotion that I will forever fail to explain….

Marimart, I apologize for not being clear enough on the description of Percy's stalker. I'm afraid that he was not Steve Rogers xD but the said Observer C.

I don't own Percy Jackson, if I did, I'd have him warm my bath water or something.

Same thing stands for the Avengers.

…

The rumbling hum of the hover jets was a nice upgrade from the World War II War Birds, Steve Rogers noted. He was sure that Stark had a hand in the creation of this air craft, somewhere down the line.

The captain sat strapped down to one of the many seats within the belly of the beast. The hover jet was on some sort of stealth setting. When one of his fellow operatives tried explaining the process of 'stealth mode' to the captain, but he lost Steve when 'Perematic Mirrorized Platiles' entered the massive equation.

Across from Steve sat Natasha Romanoff, a red-haired top-ranking op, as most would put it. Rogers could just settle with 'Dishonest Spy'. That was a much simpler term for the young woman. Next to Steve sat Clint. He didn't know the master archer's last name, despite saving the world by the agent's side. Clint Barton, codename Hawk Eye, was spinning an explosive arrow between his fingers carelessly. The man looked bored. An shocking difference from the intense focus he wore when confronting the Chitauri.

Agent Maria Hill was piloting the aircraft, and from what Steve could tell from her bios, she was closest to Nickolas J. Fury. She seems to show more compassion than most SHIELD agents, she smiled more than Natasha smirked, and talked more than Clint scowled. So Hill was the safest bet for a date, if Rogers was interested.

The rest of the agents were men and women Steve did not know, and did not want to know. A few chatted quietly, while others examining the targets bio with glass tablets.

"You nervous, big boy?" Natasha spoke for the first time since the aircraft took off. Her smirk seemed teasing, for some reason. "Remember, if things get too hot, just hit him over the head with your Frisbee."

"I'll take a note." Steve replied evenly. He still couldn't believe that he was doing this. This... the whole operation... It felt… wrong.

"Just don't give the kid a concussion." Clint murmured absentmindedly. "Makes things antsy for an interrogation."

"I'll try to restrain myself." Muttered Steve.

Rob Herling, codename Anaconda, stood from his seat. He was an imposing African American agent, as tall as Steve himself. Anaconda was bald and a scar split through his pronounced cheekbones. He was dressed in military camo pants, with trek boots and a bullet vest. A high frequency commlink sat in his vest pocket with a wire spiraling up to his ear. Normally, SHIELD avoided wires.

"Evening ladies and gentlemen." His voice was deep as he addressed the operatives.

A large glass panel slid smoothly from the floor with a soft hiss and images were immediately displayed. Top right corner shown a mug shot of Percy Jackson in his late teens. Probably taken for his driver's license. In the middle of the clear monitor displayed a highly detailed map of Goa India. Letters popped to life, A, B, C, and D. The Observers.

"As you all know, Jackson has taken residence near the coast. A nice little shack away far enough so not to draw attention." Oh, so this was a briefing. "Though as of now," Anaconda continued, "we have no records of Jackson wielding any sort of weapon. In the past he may have swung a bat around, and a gun, but no specific weapon of choice."

Steve took a mental note of this. Should make things easier.

"However," Anaconda continued, "observers have reported that he had trained with a Brazilian martial artist for a couple years. Jackson bested his mentor on the third year of his training."

"Nothing a notreeno dart won't fix." Called an agent. He was cleaning the barrel of a silver blow gun.

Anaconda nodded toward Steve Rogers, giving him the spotlight. He was the captain, after all. Steve unbuckled himself from his harness and set his shield on his back. Squaring his shoulders, the walking fossil stepped up to the briefing board and gave Anaconda a nod, who stepped aside. Ops began to stand as Hill called through the intercom.

"We're over Goa now, shifting to Drift Approach."

The thrusters of the jet died away but the shielded propellers on each wing lifted the jet higher. The hum of the engines became a faint hiss. All eyes were on the captain. Steve examined the detailed map on the briefing board for a fleeting moment before he turned to face the operatives.

"We fan out. I'll take a few of you through the city. Herling and Romanoff, take the coast. Barton, you take two choice operatives and secure the shack."

"I prefer to work alone," Clint muttered, "these buffoons will just get in my way."

That comment drew glares, and incited an amused smirk from Natasha.

"Fine," Captain America pulled fitted on his helmet and buckled the strap under his chin. "If any of you encounter Jackson, subdue him."

"What about me?" Maria Hill stepped out from the cockpit.

"Aren't you suppose-wait-who's driving?!" Steve nearly jumped out of his boots.

"Autopilot."

"What... You know? Forget it." The captain shook his head, his cheeks reddening slightly through the embarrassment. "You can-… uh… make sure autopilot doesn't malfunction?"

"Impossible."

"You never know with machines."

"Impossible, Stark designed it."

Steve chuckled. "Right, you're staying."

"What if Jackson breaks the perimeter?"

"He won't."

…

Percy was trying to get drunk. The bottle of cold beer in his hand fizzed slightly as he uncorked to head. This was his fourth bottle. He still wasn't drunk. Maybe only spawns of Dionysus could get drunk? Percy's immune system was too strong, it slaughtered the effects of the beer. Jackson could not get drunk.

He just wanted one night of happy delusion to dissuade his grief. Grief that gnawed ruthlessly at his gut, his heart. His soul. Regret, grief, guilt, agony, hate, betrayal. He wanted to numb it all, to make the tempest of bitter emotion a little spec at the back of his mind. Percy's spirit would not allow it.

The Exiled Prince gazed over the sea from the window of his shack. He was seated, slumped, in kneaded rocking chair. He hated the sea. For it belonged to the deity he had once called father. Now, beyond the wondrous reach of the sea, the song of the tide tormented him. Like the voice of the sirens when he saved Annab-

No. Don't you dare think about her.

Percy stood and hurled his beer over the beach. It landed in the sand a few paces from the tide. Before, he wouldn't dare litter in his father's domain. He wouldn't dare harm the creatures that had once called him lord. Now they called him traitor. Now, Percy didn't give a schist.

He stepped away from the window. Percy had to leave. He was too close to the shore. He had hoped the swishing of the tide would calm him, like it used to, but now it just leered. But first, he had to do something.

Percy grabbed his journal and began tearing through the pages. He stopped at one page. A picture was taped there. He stared at that picture, his eyes burning with brimming tears.

I have been living the past.

Percy tore out the whole page, photo and all, from his journal and began fumbling through a drawer. He found a small leather satchel, the size of a coin back, and emptied its single occupier. He stared at the small, beautiful trinket in his palm before he closed his fingers around it, squeezing it in his fist.

No longer.

Percy stepped out around his small house and fished around in the back of his jeep until he found a canteen of gasoline. He began trickling it about his home, the wood of the walls would help the fire spread. Tossing aside his clothes, Percy fitted on his night-blue hoodie and dark jeans. The young man took from his hoodie pocket a lighter. He flicked the tool to life and tossed it through the window.

My past is now ashes.

He glared at his handiwork, the fire creeping up the walls and enveloping the roof. The rocking chair was already charred. Percy knew he should run, but something held him back. Something made him linger for one last moment.

"You're making a mistake." The owner of the voice stepped up beside the Exiled Prince.

Percy hunched his shoulders. "What are you doing here?" His tone was devoid of emotion.

"Does it not seem obvious?"

Percy turned to face the goddess. "I'm no longer a hero, Athena." He whispered. "That was a different person. Now, that person is dead. In his place a stranger."

Athena did not confront Percy with her usual cold demeanor in which she had always used in the past. Her grey eyes were soft, sad. Percy turned his gaze back to the fire.

"I don't believe that." Athena whispered. "Do you know why?"

The Exiled Prince did not answer.

"Because I know your fatal flaw." She rested her hand on his shoulder. "The gods were wrong to exile you, Perseus."

Percy hunched his shoulders further still, his eyes dancing with the fire. The Olympians had voted for his exile. Artemis, Apollo, Hestia and Athena had elected against his banishment. The rest nominated in favor. He hated them, hated them all. The irony, really. The goddess who hated his guts since the beginning decides to like him now, out of all times.

Athena took his hand. Percy turned to face her as she pressed a golden pen into his palm. The coolness of the metal seemed to sooth him. The Exiled Prince stared down at the weapon as Athena closed his fingers around it. A tear trickled down one cheek and wetted the sand.

"They will cast me down to Tartarus again." Percy whispered. "No matter what I do, I'm not welcome any more."

"Do you need to be?" Athena rested her hands on his broad shoulders. She was taller than him, a head taller. "Don't be loyal to the gods, that path has forsaken you. Be loyal to yourself. Trust who you are, Perseus."

A pair of rosy lips pressed against his forehead.

"But who-…" Percy looked back up. Athena was gone. He stood there for a moment, trapped inside himself. A battle within. Only the roof collapsing caught his attention. The Exiled Prince faced the fire the raging fire again and took a step back. He stared down at Aklusmos. The light of the fire made the pen look like it was glowing.

Percy thumbed the cap. One click, that's all it would take. Just one click and it would all begin again. All who he ever was, all that he once was stored in the spirit of a magical sword.

Not so cliché as one might think.

No. Not yet.

He will think about it. And this time he will give himself a chance.

As Percy Jackson turned his back to the burning shack, the last think to catch aflame was a small photo. The photo was of a handsome young man with eyes as green as the sea, nearly unrecognizable in his black suit, gazing into the storm-grey eyes of a blonde young woman.

A young woman in a Greek-style wedding dress. The flames consumed the photo. All that was left was a red-hot trinket.

A wedding ring.

From another life.

…

Dun dun duuuununnnnn…. I wedding ring?! Had Percy once been married? What had happened for him to think of himself this way? I myself don't even know yet xD I hope you enjoyed!