Chapter Text
FBI Headquarters, Quantico, Virginia
Percy shifts on his seat, swiveling it side-to-side. How many times must he have done that, and the others have yet to mention it. Morgan probably isn’t a fan; he doesn’t seem like the type of guy to like the constant fiddling.
Hotch clears his throat loudly and raises his eyebrows pointedly when Percy’s eyes snap to the board.
“Vanessa Holden, 25 years old. Last Friday, she and her sister went clubbing. A stranger, white male roughly their age, picked her up, and they left the club at 1 A.M., according to the sister. Vanessa and the unsub went back to her place, where he forced her on her hands and knees and cut her open just below the stomach.”
The picture Hotch pulls up on the screen is rough to see. The victim face down on a blood-stained carpet, brush in hand, eyes so wide they will never close again. Strands of her blonde hair are matted and caked with blood; Percy’s stomach twists with thoughts of Annabeth.
“Whoa,” Morgan voices his thoughts perfectly.
Rossi echoes, “Yeah, pretty rough.”
The gutting causes the intestines to spill out.” Reid frowns. He doesn’t seem too happy about the information he’s sharing. “You can survive for a few hours, actually even days.”
Could Percy survive longer? Water is all around, and it wouldn’t be all that hard to grab hold of his own blood to stall it. He’d done it before – he cuts himself off before he can finish the thought process. It’s a pointless exercise, anyways. These victims likely don’t have the advantages (and disadvantages) in life Percy does.
“The M.E. estimates he slit her throat at five A.M., that leaves four hours in which she’s been disemboweled but kept alive.” Hotch powers on with that serious look of his. Sometimes his eyebrows remind Percy of those of cyclopes; they’ve got the same straight, low-hanging shape.
Emily leans forward. “Could be a sexual sadist.” There’s a concerned twist to her lips; when Percy focuses on her heart, he hears an irregular beat pop up. JJ is apparently a blonde, maybe that’s why.
“It’s possible, but Garcia found two priors from a year ago – the same MO, but this time they were prostitutes in motel rooms.” Hotch slaps a stack of folders on the round table, of which each member takes one. Percy mostly flips through the pictures while the others talk, familiarizing himself with the way this unsub kills.
Distantly he hears Rossi ask, “Why do you think this is the same unsub?”
Percy isn’t quite sure if he is of much use in these meetings. His expertise is mostly in family, children, and combat, after all. The people around him have studied behavior and know more about it than he likely ever will.
“In all three apartments they found bleach, ammonia, and trash bags set up in a triangle.” Hotch clicks a button on the remote.
On the other hand, Percy has had a lot of experience with others in a wide variety of situations. His intuition has yet to set him on the wrong path.
“He’s cleaning up.”
“Maybe trying to hide his tracks.”
“It could be a sign of remorse…”
How correct is his intuition even when his DNA is wired for the world of the gods. He’s spent the last few years with mortals, sure, but he grew up at camp surrounded by mythical beings and mythical problems.
“Apologizing for the murder by minimizing the mess.” Percy doesn’t even know who’s speaking anymore, but his eyes catch on the few words he can make out from the squiggly lines on the page in front of him.
“No, there’s bleach and ammonia under the victims’ fingernails. He’s not cleaning it up himself. That’s not remorse, right?” Percy speaks up, eyes still fixed on the snapshot of one of the prostitutes’ hands. Her nails are perfectly manicured with bright pink and red designs, but the tips are jagged and torn off. He’s abruptly thrown back to memories of his own nails just as ragged, in a house that smelt of booze and cigars.
Rossi’s voice pulls him out of the memory. “He’s making them clean up their own murder.”
“Humans see what they want to see.”
— Rick Riordan
BAU jet, the sky
Even with it being more than a month since he first started with the BAU, the buzzing of the jet was still distracting as all Hades to Percy’s delicate focus. After the third time of trying, and failing, to run through what he packed in his go-bag to check – he won’t be asking Morgan for underwear ever again, thank you very much – he gave up and shifted his attention back to the team.
Percy hears the telltale tapping of Hotch’s cellphone, likely a message to his wife. It’s about the time of day Jack wakes up, and he has yet to miss a morning text. It’s heartwarming to see for someone who grew up surrounded by kids with absent parents. Emily and Rossi are playing some kind of card game; it looks to be Crazy Eights, but Percy’s only contact with card games is Mr. D’s Pinochle, Gabe’s gambling – which he rarely actually looked at – and the one time Tyson cried while Grover taught them Go Fish. He debates snapping a photo to ask Annabeth to confirm his suspicions when Hotch sighs deeply and calls the team to him.
Reid and Morgan take a second to put down their book and music, respectively. Everyone takes a moment to study the file again to brainstorm.
“I’ve got a question,” Percy pipes up. “If the unsub changed the victimology, does that mean he’s organized or disorganized?” He’s proud of himself for picking up the way these people think, because Morgan immediately looks thoughtful.
“Well, the prostitutes point one way, the club goes another.”
Emily tilts her head. “It’s a good question.”
“The triangular arrangement of the cleaning supplies is interesting too,” Reid adds.
Hotch frowns, “Obsessive-compulsive?”
“Might have been institutionalized,” Emily counters.
“Hold on,” Rossi holds up a hand. “Let’s look at the broad picture. This guy started with prostitutes – a high-risk victimology – took a year off, came back, and killed a socialite.”
Morgan nods, “No forced entry, no coercion of any kind. Vanessa came willingly.”
“Exactly,” Rossi says. The way he does it reminds Percy of Hermes’ acting streak in musicals. “So, how does our unsub go from loser of the year to Zeus in picking up women?”
That makes Percy snort and hold on to his seat a bit tighter. If Zeus heard himself being compared to this guy, there’s a good chance the jet would experience turbulence like never before. Percy’s dad and Hades would hold that over his head forever.
Hotch looks at him oddly but powers on, “Something must have happened between the last prostitute and Vanessa Holden to make him change his victimology so drastically.”
“Could the unsub have known Vanessa?” Percy adds as a distraction.
“It’s unlikely,” Reid shakes his head. “Sexual sadists attack anonymously. They have to sever a personal connection and see their victims as objects to perpetrate this level of torture.”
Percy cringes internally. He’d thought that by joining the mortal workforce he’d be rid of fighting monsters daily, but work at the FBI made it hard not to see a monster in everyone at times.
Emily purses her lips. “We have to build two profiles then – one for the unsub who killed prostitutes, one for the unsub who goes to clubs.”
“That’ll be a first.” Rossi doesn’t look fully convinced.
“Prentiss is right,” Hotch amends. “The victimology is so different, we’ll treat them as different unsubs and see what overlaps. Reid, work up a geographical profile; focus on the location of the murders. Prentiss and Rossi concentrate on the prostitutes. Morgan, Jackson, and I will go deal with Vanessa Holden.
Atlanta Police Department, Atlanta, Georgia
The station is busy when they walk in, and the cop at the front desk waves them over to one of the rooms with a hurried wave of his pen. The office has already been set up with a transparent whiteboard and a map; the detective on the case is already bent over files doing the gods know what.
Hotch rushes over to her without preamble, sticking his hand out before she’s even had the chance to look up.
“Detective Harding?”
She doesn’t look surprised at the forwardness. Percy has noticed that many members of law enforcement are like that. His previous colleagues in Child Protection usually were more prone to small talk, but that might have to do with the fact that they dealt with children a lot.
“Thank you for coming.” She smiles gratefully, even though there’s some tension around her eyes.
“I’m Aaron Hotchner,” he starts when she accepts his waiting hand, waving over to the rest for introductions when they’re done. “That’s SA Jackson, and SSA’s Morgan and Dr. Reid.”
Percy can feel the tiny droplets of sweat on her hand, a bit more than usual but not enough that others would notice. The case is taking a toll on her, but not enough to withhold an interested flick of her brown hair as she moves on to Morgan.
“How you doin’.” Morgan asks with a small grin. That bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.
Luckily, Reid just storms right over. “Is there a DNA match between the unsub and the prostitutes we can run through ViCAP, just in case?”
“Uh, there’s no DNA at all.” She looks apologetic. “No prints, no fibers. Just like Vanessa everything gets cleaned up.”
Morgan leans back with a frown. “Pretty effective forensic countermeasure.”
“What about witnesses? Somebody must have seen something.” Hotch asks instead.
Detective Harding nods emphatically, “Oh yeah, lots of people.”
“So, you have a sketch.”
She looks doubtful as she picks up a manila folder to pull the sketch from between before she hands it over to Reid. Hotch, Morgan, and Percy gather around to look at the paper.
Compared to other police sketches, this one is rather disappointing. There are no identifying features, no asymmetry, just a square face, thin lips, low eyebrows, and a straight nose. That could describe about half the white men in Atlanta at the moment. The likelihood of someone remembering a stranger who wasn’t behaving weirdly will always be low, so it isn’t surprising. Percy knows better than most that people are rather oblivious at paying attention to their surroundings. For a moment he wonders if there could ever be a demigod or legacy unsub that would use the mist to hide their tracks.
“It’s a little vague,” Reid hedges carefully.
Harding purses her lips in acknowledgement. “That’s because of this guy’s other countermeasure. Take a look.”
She takes hold of the remote for the small TV next to them. With a beep CCTV footage of a club begins playing. It’s dark and grainy, but when Harding points a manicured finger to one of the people on the tape, Percy can see enough to be concerned.
“So, this guy right here, that’s our killer.”
The guy can be seen talking to Vanessa and her sister, but the most disturbing thing is what is sitting on his head. Before Percy can help himself, he blurts out, “Is that a fedora?”
Hotch looks amused when he nods. “He’s drawing attention to his face while simultaneously obscuring it.”
“Gods, if Cabin ten saw that thing anywhere in camp, they’d burn the whole place down.” Percy muttered, awestruck. “Why would anyone wear those?”
“This guy probably wears the fedora for an act called ‘peacocking’ – the adornment of some sort of flashy affect to sort of try to distract witnesses.”
While Percy was stuck on the fashion disaster – he’d spent far too much time with Piper’s sisters last he went; she’d called it ‘emotional support,’ but he knew she secretly enjoyed the pampering moments and just wanted one of her friends to gossip with between the hair masks and manicures – Morgan fixated on the more important aspect.
“So, none of your witness statements agree.”
Harding looked exasperated while she read from her file. “’He had a mole,’ ‘He didn’t have a mole.’ ‘He had a gap between his teeth,’ ‘No, his teeth were perfect.’”
Hotch nods, “Well, I think it’s best if we talk to Ashley Holden. She got the best look at our unsub.”
Percy noticed her eyes tense again at that. “I wish I could make that happen, but unfortunately the family has decided to stop cooperating.”
“How come?” Percy asks immediately. In all his time working with parents, that rarely happened, and never without a good reason.
Detective Harding shakes her head with regret. “They wouldn’t say. Yesterday the mother would move heaven and earth to help find her daughter’s killer. Today, no thanks.”
Hotch crosses his arms and stares grimly at the ground, then flicks his eyes up at Percy. “Then we’ll need your expertise.”
Percy nods with his phone already open and ready; he’d expected it. “I’ll call Penelope to see if she can find the cause of the sudden change.
In a quiet hallway not too far from the room, it only takes two rings for Penelope to pick up. “Office of Excellence speaking, state your claim.”
A warm smile overtakes Percy’s face at her happy voice. He’ll make an offer to Hestia tonight to ask for a bit of godly protection for her. She might as well be the only thing keeping the BAU sane.
“I come with a humble request for information, my liege?”
“Oh, my tall mocha statue! It is so good to hear you. Don’t let Derek know, but you’re definitely my favorite right now. He hasn’t called me once today!”
Percy laughs incredulously, “Mocha statue?”
“Yeah, you know how those cringy romance authors use every food word under the sun to describe skin tones. I already have my chocolate thunder, so you’ll be my mocha statue!”
“Because I’m tan and you think I look like a statue?” He isn’t sure whether to be flattered or not.
“No, because you’re tan and look like one of those art pieces from the classical period, the hot ones, obviously.” There’s a short exasperated sigh on the other end of the line. “But you called for information, my darling. What can I do for you?”
Percy’s smile dimmed at the reminder of the situation. “Right, have you found anything to explain why the Holden family would suddenly go cold on the police force?”
There’s some tapping. “Well, I already scoured their records, and they haven’t broken the law or had any suspicious transactions lately.”
Percy hums thoughtfully, “What about something online, on public records?”
More tapping and a longer pause. “Oh, dear. Looks like there’s a bunch of blog posts and Facebook messages. The Holdens are pretty well off and active in the city, and that means a lot of backlash.”
A knot of dread tightens in Percy’s stomach before Penelope can even say any more.
“’The Holdens got what they had coming to them,’ ‘Why did Ashley get her sister killed?’” There’s an audible shudder before the last one. “Yikes, ‘How much to gut the slutty one’…”
Percy rubs his brows. He can already feel the anger bubbling up in defense of this family. “Fuck. Thanks, Penelope. Go look at some baby animals for me, will you?”
“Aye aye, captain!” Her voice softens, “Good luck.”
Holden Family Home, Atlanta, Georgia
The house they stop in front of is huge. There’s wooden accents on the outside, and if Annabeth were here, she could tell him all about the architecture style and when it was built. All Percy could tell was that it was expensive.
A quiet girl lets them in and introduces herself as a niece of Vanessa’s. She disappears into a doorway for a moment, and when she comes back there’s an older woman following her, sorrow etched deep into every line on her face.
She uses the tissue in her hand to quickly blot at her eyes before she addresses Hotch. “Good afternoon. I’m sorry you came all the way out here. It’s a waste of your time, Ashley knows absolutely nothing, and we want to get this behind us as soon as possible.”
Percy’s heart wrenches for the family, but what Ashley knows can be the difference between catching this monster or another body.
He steels himself while he steps up, “Look, Mrs. Holden, I really hate that we have to put you in this position. With the loss you’ve suffered, I’m sure you want to grieve in peace.”
The woman looks vindicated as she exhales an “Exactly.”
“But, you might not be protecting Ashley this way.” Percy powers through the angry look Mrs. Holden shoots him.
“I’ve lost my fair share of people, and it hurts like a bitch, I know. But I’ve also gotten others hurt because of things I kept to myself,” he swallows back the lump in his throat, trying not to think about the campers that could have survived had he told Chiron about his visions of Kronos, “And the guilt from that eats you alive.”
Mrs. Holden breathes shakily and closes her eyes in pain.
“This man will kill again, and we’ll stop him without your daughter’s help but we don’t have enough information to do it without another body. That sounds really cruel, because it is. What your daughter knows might help. I don’t want another kid to know the weight of thinking they caused a death. Please, don’t let that become Ashley.”
Percy can almost taste the salt from her tears in the air.
She shakes her head, “If you accuse her of any- “
“Ma’am, I promise,” Percy interrupts calmly, “we’re only here to help.”
Mrs. Holden lets out a gust of air and nods, waving them along deeper into the house. When he follows, he can still hear Hotch and Morgan in hushed tones. It should be out of earshot for any mortal, but godly genetics have their advantages.
“You think he was being sincere?” Morgan asks.
There’s a shift of clothes and a sigh before Hotch answers, “I think that was the most real and unguarded he’s been about his past.”
When Hotch and Morgan enter the room, Percy is already sitting across from Ashley. The blonde has sunken into herself so far the couch is starting to swallow her. She self-consciously rubs the sleeve of her blue top between her fingers as she starts explaining.
“Vanessa’s boyfriend just broke up with her. So, I took her out to, you know…”
Percy didn’t know, but Morgan seemed to: “To have a good time, there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Were you approached by anyone?” Hotch leans forward.
“Guys,” she shrugs.
“Did anyone jump out? Can you describe any of them?” Percy asks.
Ashley sighs, defeated. “I don’t know, they were ordinary. Look, Vanessa wasn’t even in the mood.
“So, if she wasn’t in the mood,” Hotch intones with caution. “If she left with this guy, there must have been something about him, something unique.”
“We saw the surveillance of him,” Percy clarified. “He had a pretty distinct sense of fashion. So, he was pretty flashy, right?”
Morgan nods, “Right, what was the first thing you noticed about him?”
Ashley scoffs and seems to gain a bit more life. “His attitude.”
“What about it?” Morgan’s elbows meet his knees, leaning forward with interest. “Cocky? Confident? Or did he play it more the brooding type?”
“He was like –“ Ashley frowns and shifts her shoulders. She sounds weirded out and unsure while she explains, “He was hitting on us, but he was, like, making a joke out of it at the same time? You know, even his eyes, they were different colors.”
Percy affirms, “So, this guy wanted to be noticed?”
“Yeah. That’s why you go to a club, right? And then he had these games, like, he would bet us drinks that we couldn’t get his number. Or this other one where,” she frowns at this one, “he’d take a picture with us and then quickly switch to another one while we weren’t looking. One where he posed with a – a fat … girl, and then he’d say ‘The camera does add 10 pounds.’”
The smell of tears hits the air again. Percy holds out the tissue box before they can fall.
“She didn’t even want to go out that night,” Ashley hiccups. “I had to drag her to the club. The last thing she said to me before I left her alone with that guy was, ‘I had the best time tonight.’”
Ashley shakes her head in despair. A strand of blond hair falls from her ponytail.
“The best time.”
“Jackson.” Hotch calls after him once they’re out the door. His arms are crossed, and his stance is wide. Percy feels the confrontation coming from a mile away. “You shouldn’t have promised them there won’t be another body if they talk.”
“No, but I can make sure they did all they could. I didn’t promise anything;I gave them a chance to open up,” Percy argues.
Hotch’s frown deepens, “You’re representing more than just yourself here. This unsub will hit again, and when we don’t catch him in time, that family will lose the trust they have in the BAU and the FBI.”
Percy grinds his teeth, “Maybe, but at least they won’t lose the trust they have in themselves. They were already fucked up by the attention they got online; how much worse would it be for that family if they saw there was another body on the news and they’d said nothing. It would tear them apart.”
“That isn’t just your call to make.”
“Isn’t it?” He sets his jaw stubbornly, “I get that you’re head of the BAU, but I’m not here to blindly follow your instructions. You brought me for my expertise with kids and families; that’s what I’m doing. I don’t care that they lose trust in the FBI or even the godsdamned government; I care that those people don’t lose even more of themselves than they already have.”
Percy doesn’t wait for Hotch to open his mouth to berate him when he turns towards the car.
Atlanta Police Department, Atlanta, Georgia
For how much he mouthed off to Hotch, the tension in the group is relatively bearable.
The team is sitting in a loose circle in the office with the whiteboard; Rossi is flipping through a newspaper, and there’s an empty chair ready for Reid, who’s making a coffee before he shares his discoveries on the case.
“The unsub killed the prostitutes in separate pay-by-the-hour motels in Fulton County, right there in one of the poorer neighborhoods in the area,” Reid starts. He weaves through the chairs with three coffee mugs precariously balanced in his hands, then hands one to Hotch and Emily and takes his seat. “Now, Vanessa Holden's apartment was in the Peachtree district, where there's a lot of big money. Based on the geography, he isn't just changing his victimology; he's changed his whole tax bracket.”
Morgan tilts his head, “Well, the high profile of Vanessa bears that out. By killing her, he was climbing the social ladder.”
“If that's the case, this unsub had a long way to climb. Both prostitutes advertised here,” He straightens out the newspaper in his hand to one of the last pages. “Look at their pictures.”
Percy is a touch too far to clearly read the text, but there seem to be a dozen or so ads of women in sexy clothes with phone numbers attached. It reminds him of the ones he sometimes saw Gabe looking at when he and his mom had another fight.
“Subservient positioning – they’re asking to be dominated.” Hotch pulls him out of his reverie.
Emily adds, “Promising to come to you? That cuts out the social interaction of meeting on a street corner.” She almost sounds mocking, as she should.
Percy hopes his derision isn’t too audible when he says, “And this is the guy who goes to clubs and picks up women wearing a fedora? Did he get a personality transplant or what?”
That earns him a harsh look from Hotch. “Well, he took a year off between the murders. Maybe he took that time to change himself.”
“That's impossible.” Morgan dismisses it immediately and with confidence, and Percy can’t help but agree.
“Why,” Hotch counters.
“Well, I mean, you're talking about a total transformation here,” Morgan stresses. “How you talk, how you dress, how you think about yourself.”
Hotch sips his coffee and assesses for a bit. “Difficult, maybe. Not impossible.”
“He already started killing. There must have been a secondary trigger that motivated him to change who he was. So if you're gonna transform yourself, how would you do it?” Rossi doesn’t look all too convinced yet either, judging by how he leans back to let the others speculate.
“A steady diet of self-help books. Start hitting the gym?” Emily muses.
“Bootcamp.” Percy adds, only half-joking.
Reid seems to have a lightbulb moment and sits straighter, gesturing with his hands. “You have to learn how to read people. I mean, what is a pick-up? It's basically just a profile.”
“Decoding cues of interest and recoding similar ones,” Morgan agrees.
Emily considers it. “If you're too obvious, you turn off your target. If you're oblivious, your target moves on to a better profiler.”
“I don’t know,” Percy interrupts, “That sounds a bit far-fetched. Isn’t picking someone up more about finding someone you vibe with?”
Reid grimaces, “For people like you, maybe, but for people who only have the pick-up tricks going for them, they’re far more careful with it.”
He sounds like he’s familiar with it; of course, that could just be Reid. Percy squints his eyes and leans forward teasingly anyway. “Come on, you’re not telling me you’ve needed to use your profiling skills to get someone home before?”
There’s a flush to Reid’s cheeks even as he rolls his eyes. “No, I haven’t.”
“Pretty boy here doesn’t do any of that.” Morgan grins at them both.
“Hmm, shame,” Percy shrugs, feeling more than seeing more blood rush to Reid’s skin.
Hotch cuts in before they can get any further, “In any case, it doesn’t sound like something the unsub could learn on his own.”
“No. He'd have to go somewhere to learn it,” Emily agrees.
Reid posits, “Yeah. A self-help class, maybe?”
“Uh, wait a minute,” Morgan shakes his head and tries to reason with them. “Come on. An unsub who kills prostitutes. Is he really thinking about signing up for a Tony Robbins seminar?”
“Who’s Tony Robbins?” Percy turns to Reid.
Reid pops up as he explains, “Anthony Robbins is a coach and motivational speaker who later also went on to release self-help books. He is known for those and for his seminars. His most famous endeavor is the reality TV show he had on NBC, where he helped people get over personal challenges. He also cohosted with Oprah!”
“Oh cool, Oprah’s one of the good ones, right?” Percy was proud of even recognizing the name.
“Yeah, she’s very involved in education and philantro-“
“Ahem,” Rossi coughs pointedly. “While you two youngsters were chattering, we figured out how our unsub learnt how to pick up chicks.”
He turns around the paper to show another ad above one of the photos of girls. In big blocky letters the text ‘LEARN HOW TO PICK UP CHICKS’ can be seen, with underneath ‘Let’s face it. We all want to have sex. But women are a mystery. Take my class and learn how to unlock desire.’
Percy nearly groans out loud; someone is going to have to talk to those people.