Percy Jackson: New Age

Bruce Wayne groaned in annoyance as he read the Starling City Police Department report via the Batcomputer in the west wing of his family mansion in Gotham City. It was a cold September morning and the rain that was breaking in the sky was light: a depressing mist that dominated the steel jungle and the souls of the people. According to the meteorologists at the Wayne Institute, this weather would continue in Gotham for the next few months; he almost preferred the normal cloudy days.

But now he had a case presented by Oliver: a human trafficking scene that was joined by a new vigilante. Bruce, the forty-one-year-old leader of the Holy Trinity, was completely obsessed with finding this new unknown vigilante for reasons of world security. In reality, he would rather be chasing criminals than sitting in front of a computer. For days, he had been checking the security cameras all over the dock, at least, the ones that weren't fake. So when he scanned the contents, it turned out that none of them provided a complete picture of the new vigilante, already dubbed the Golden Lady. That was the first piece of information Bruce had the pleasure and misfortune of learning about this stranger, and all the repercussions her growing body count brought.

Naturally, he had a PR nightmare on his hands. The UN thought the League had phantom limbs, which made no sense. And it got worse when Luthor focused his PR department on discrediting the League. His success was questionable anyway; after three full days of investigation, Bruce was already expecting another headache. Hell, even the murders were clean during the Starling City dock raid, and there was no mention of the kidnapped children! But Bruce had a tendency to be obsessive and worrisome. And it seemed as if the Golden Lady had appeared out of nowhere, only to then vanish into thin air without a trace.

That, and the Little Girl.

The "Girl" was a term used by the press to refer to one of the rescued youths, a tasteless and generic one. Standing next to Bruce, Alfred said,

"Master Bruce, are you sure there was another girl? We have received no information to support the rescued youths' statement."

"There are nineteen boys who insist on her existence," he pointed out. "Remember?"

"It could be a trauma construct…"

"Alfred, you know that it is not possible for nineteen people to hallucinate the same thing," he said, "and that proves her existence."

Alfred shook his head doubtfully,

"I hope you are right, Master Bruce."

"Yes, B, I am very sure she is real," Dick said from his seat, a few monitors to the right. He was twelve years old.

"Trust me, she is very real." Bruce ignored them in silence for a few moments. "It makes no sense. How does she disappear? Look at this camera." It's like it doesn't detect his movement.

"Strange," Dick conceded.

Alfred walked over to the nearby table and poured tea and coffee for the guests, making double-check that Dick's cup was unsweetened tea. He hummed and carefully lifted the tray.

The butler offered his charges their drinks, and Bruce Wayne appropriated a cup full of steaming, bitter, delicious coffee. Suddenly, Dick was startled. He stared at his screen, typing and looking again, and after gathering his thoughts, he shouted,

"Look! Look!"

Bruce stepped closer, his muscles protesting to move again after six hours of not being used.

"What is it, young master Richard?" Alfred asked, setting down the tray. "The Golden Lady?"

"Perhaps a new angle," Bruce replied.

"Really?" Dick asked, looking at the two adults as if they were ignorant. He was trying very hard not to lose his thoughts, Focusing on his findings was difficult.

"Of course," Bruce replied, though he saw nothing new in the recording.

Dick ignored him; the recordings he was reviewing were looping ten seconds of the entire recording.

"I think B is right," he said. "I think the Golden Lady kidnapped a little girl." He stepped away from his monitor and let Bruce take his place.

"Hey!" he added, more animated. "According to this video, for a moment the Golden Lady's light is perceptible to the camera angle. Golden for the most part, but it's too wide, and the angle isn't natural. Do you think that's the moment when she was kidnapped?"

"I bet it is."

"Really?"

"Look at the time."

"When Arrow reported losing contact with Speedy."

Dick's memory was impeccable, making the job easier.

Bruce Wayne felt like a fool when he finally understood his pupil's observation. A large golden stain with dull colors of brown, black and a sickly pale, if you paid attention, matched the silhouette of a girl of approximately one meter forty.

It was true! The Girl was real and not just speculation created by the press. Alfred stood behind him, saying:

"Master Bruce, use the new program developed by Mr. Allen."

"Yes." —Actually, Bruce had that same idea. Using the Speedster program would be one way to try to identify this meta, but he had learned that, with metas in between, anything was possible.

Dick was already hunched in front of another monitor.

"Don't stay up late, young master Richard," Alfred warned him.

"Understood," Dick agreed over his shoulder. "I'll see if I can find anything else."

Alfred Pennyworth scanned the lair and the computers with his eyes:

"What could the meta want with the girl?"

"Nobody knows, Alfred. She appeared out of nowhere and only left a message in blood," Bruce replied.

"SPQR?"

"Exactly!" Bruce replied. "It's not common for vigilantes to use that theme." Even Diana, being a demigoddess, doesn't really use it.

"Well, she is a demigoddess…"

"Yeah," Bruce admitted. "If anyone knows about this, it's Diana. I'll call her." He watched his pupil typing frantically, the sound of keys echoing against the stone walls. "Diana might be able to give us some idea of what it means."

Dick glued his eyes to the monitor until he was inches from the screen. Then he stepped back, blinking ardently, and gently massaged his temples. The video was fuzzy, and there was virtually nothing to give away the new guard. He leaned back for a moment, regaining his sight, then looked back at the monitor, at where the bodies were piled up, looking for details he might have missed.

The screen flickered for a second, a golden glow leaving another body in the pile. Gleefully, Dick paused the recording. He didn't want to miss the new evidence found; he didn't want to admit that this strange haze was confusing him again. He wanted to find her and maybe solve this case himself.

He had watched this video for the past two days, both on Bruce's computer and tablets. It was like being stalked by paparazzi after a night on patrol. Either way, he couldn't shake the constant brain numbness it gave him; he could easily count every time his mind dissociated.

Now his foster father was on patrol, and Dick decided not to go with him. He'd rather stay off the streets and focus on investigating this case. In this part of the footage, the vigilante was stopping over the tangle of bodies that formed a pool of blood. Dick couldn't see her face. That pause lasted less than a second; he realized he wouldn't be able to make her out.

Frustrated, he rubbed his temples and kicked the desk.

He noticed she made that same stop when leaving the most recent bodies. Serial killers were famous for their patterns. Studies said every serial killer had a pattern.

Without exception, they all sought attention, and for that they fell. But that didn't seem to be the case this time. Dick was sure that she was too confident in using her powers. He almost regretted his situation: he never faced them, and that was why he made so many mistakes.

He breathed silently, without moving, watching the video again, and at last he discovered what he needed in the files: a few moments of the tape. The guard paused longer than usual, almost imperceptible, but enough to use the Speedster program.

Dick held his breath. Finally! The woman looked at the camera, and he managed to freeze that moment. Trembling slightly, he entered the information into the program. Thus began the process; it was slow, almost painfully slow, but it was fine. The Speedster program collected the structure of bodies moving quickly in the air or water. It emitted small beeps when the first phase ended.

The young man thought he would be there for centuries. It seemed like a sentence for destroying Alfred's kitchen. Dick raised his hand and moved his fingers in front of his eyes, which suddenly clouded over for some reason.

The alarm was unexpected. It surprised him. Six hours of processing passed like air. It was three in the morning and Dick, waking from an uncomfortable sleep in the chairs of the den, was suffering from severe muscle pain.

Dick thought something was wrong.

He looked at the results left by the program, full of imperfections and distortions. He moved closer to the screen as it presented all the anomalies and the solutions used; Dick kept his body still, not wanting to disturb his concentration. He was surprised that the program had improved the image so much, but he noticed that it would not be of any use. The entire image of the stranger was strange. She wore bronze armor that gleamed gold, as if refracting a non-existent light. Unfortunately, she had no face to identify. She was tanned, like Kaldur, with bright golden eyes that overshadowed her features.

The program stopped. Dick leaned back in his seat and moved his

The spindle of his chair rotated three hundred and sixty degrees. It made a distinctive thud, like plastic being dragged.

"Shit," Dick said. "I just don't have anything."

And then, without warning, the young man's head doubled over in pain. Dick could feel the pulsations hammering through his skull, along with the strange sensation of his eyes being torn open, as if a blinding scab was being torn off. His eyes met, throwing him to the ground.

"Miss Diana says she'll be coming," Alfred said through the communicators. "This morning; she was very upset on the line, Master Bruce."

"Hmm… I'll keep that in mind," Bruce replied, carefully checking the functions of his assault vehicle. It had been a slow day, and most of the crimes were the work of standard thugs. Not that Bruce was going to complain about a break after arresting Nigma, again.

"Don't you think that will be a problem?" Alfred asked.

"No, Alfred, I don't think so."

"If that is so, I'll be waiting for him in the west wing."

"I thought you were there now," Bruce said, somewhat confused.

"Yes, I am, on my way to put young Master Richard to bed."

"Well, have you made any progress?"

"I don't know that, Master Bruce."

And then, from the entrance to the den, drawn by the echo, Bruce heard his butler's voice. He was shouting.