Ahhhh! I got this idea after reading Holes, by Louis Sachar. I loved it! So, so much. Anyway, I decided to write this for you guys, even though I should be working on my stories.

Oh, and, if any of you haven't ever read my stories, I like to make Percy bad. Like, crazy bad.

I DO NOT OWN.

RBC with a Killer

Connor Stoll really didn't know how he ended up where he was. One moment he and his brother, Travis Stoll, were messing around in the mortal world; the next they were standing in a court room, where the question was asked: "Prison, or rehabilitation?"

And then they were here. Here, as it turned out, was the middle of nowhere—literally, a place off of 600 Nowhere Road, Athens, Georgia. There were skinny little trees shooting up to the sky and some dirt trails that trailed near the outer edges of the land. Apparently, this place was for sale, but because it costs so much, the state was using it as a rehabilitation camp for delinquents.

And now, in the Rehabilitation Boy Camp, a camp for delinquents, RBC for short (seriously? There wasn't even an anagram? No creativity), Connor stood with Travis, both their small backpacks by their feet as they stared at the sky, where the tops of the trees didn't seem to stop.

SHRIII!

Connor and Travis jumped at the shrill noise. "You two!" a man shouted, storming over to them; he was tall, well-built, and had his hair styled in a buzz cut. Basically, he looked like the usual camp leaders directors put in movies, only scarier. Faint white scars circled his buff arms, and his right eye was glazed, as if it were blind. "Get over here!"

Connor and Travis immediately grabbed their backpacks and stepped toward the towering building supposedly called a man. "New around here?" the man asked, turning his glazed eye to them.

"Yes sir," Travis stuttered, wincing at his not-so-gracefulness; they both needed work on their smooth talk, even as children of Hermes. Maybe it was because they never listened to authority that Travis had stuttered.

The man eyed him over with his blind, almost glass-looking, eye. "There's only room in one more tent," he muttered to himself, "but even I have mercy…"

The Stolls gulped. What did that mean?

The commander dude shook his head, growling at himself. "Too bad," he said to them. "Come with me." Then he swiftly took off.

Travis followed directly behind the crazy man who intended on putting the duo with an even crazier one, Connor behind him. To his right, there were tents lined up besides each other, each uglier than the last; they were those old-fashioned triangle-shaped ones that people drew because they couldn't do better, and the only thing that stood them apart from their neighbor was the slight difference in mold covering the edges and the big paper on the front. The first tent had the letter A, the next B, and so on and so on until E.

But Mister Whistle Man didn't stop there. He kept walking, going off the treeless area and into the tree-ful area. Travis followed anyway, and so did Connor. After a few feet, they spotted it: probably the cleanest and biggest tent in the whole camp.

Travis didn't get it—what was so bad?

"Go inside," the commander ordered, nodding his head at the tent.

Connor blurted, "Are you not going to tell us the rules or something?"

The big, burly man shuddered, as if in fear. "I'm not goin' in there with that killer."

Correction—in fear.

Connor and Travis did the same.

This was going to be a long month and a half—if they even lived that long.

"You go first," Connor whispered in horror, pushing his bother toward the front flap of the now horrifying tent.

"What, no!" Travis stumbled back, grabbing his brother's arm.

Connor grumbled, "Fine, we'll both go. At the same time."

Travis nodded, biting his lower lip. Together, they took shaky steps to the front, where their eyes both automatically caught sight of the letter waving in a non-existent wind: A big, bold X was on the paper, but instead of the usual black, it was a deep shade of red, almost… blood red. It was a warning, obviously. But, just in case people didn't understand that, there was another sheet of paper below that letter, a note that read: "Enter at your own risk. We are not responsible for any assaults or murders."

Oh yeah. A definite confidence builder.

Both Stolls stood outside the tent, their eyes glued to the signs above them. What could possibly go wrong? They were demigods after all, Connor began to muse after a while, his brain finally escaping its moment of shock. But, then again, this was a killer they were dealing with, and they were not killers of mortals, no matter how many monsters they slaughtered.

Why didn't Travis just blurt out prison, instead of rehabilitation?

Laughing came from within the tent—the laughter of the killer—and both Stolls hugged the other tighter. "Are you two gonna come in or not?" The voice was happy, not killer-material as the Stolls had previously imagined.

And also… familiar.

Like, creepily familiar.

A head popped out, with jet-black hair and a lop-sided grin and a set of sea green eyes. "Hey guys. What's up?"

Percy. Percy. Freakin'. Jackson. That's who the commander—probably this whole camp—was afraid of? "Hey… Hello? Why're you two huggin' each other like a couple a sissies?"

"Percy?!" Connor shouted, his mouth dropping to the floor.

He spread his arms wide, coming out of the tent completely. "The one and only."

Travis shoved Connor away, staring at the Son of Poseidon warily. "But why are you…?"

Percy shook his head, eyes full of mirth. "Around the same reason you guys are, I guess. I was messin' around in the mortal world, and, well, stuff happened." He shrugged helplessly.

"Oh," Travis mumbled, twisting the toe of his foot in the dirt. "But…" He faltered; was Travis really about to doubt the Hero of Olympus? "The commander called you a killer." Guess so.

Percy's eyes darkened. "That was from a long time ago. Don't bother with it." Then he waved his hand, and the matter was closed. A smile graced his lips. "Well? C'mon in."

With Connor behind him, Travis stepped in the tent. It really was big—with four bunk beds and two drawers all evenly spaced around the edges. A purple shag carpet lay on the dirt ground in the center, and above it was a plastic sun roof for plenty of natural light.

"Eight beds?" Connor asked, confused. "There are more people?"

"No," answered Percy, plopping down on the bed farthest in the left-hand corner; it was obviously his, belongings already lying about around it. "I did the first time I was here, but… stuff happens."

Percy was here before? Travis thought, discreetly eyeing the hero. There seemed to be many things people didn't know about the teenage hero.

"Yeah, I was here before, when I was eleven. It was at the end of the school year though, since I was expelled and all." Percy fell on his back.

Oh. Travis said his question out loud. Oops.

Connor swooped in to save his brother, asking, "What for?" Connor placed his back pack on the bed in front of Percy's and began to unpack.

"I did a lot of things, believe it or not. But… there was this one thing people really didn't like…" Percy rolled over and got up out of his bed. "Anyway, it's time for dinner."

Scrunching his brows together, Travis pulled out a brochure—yes, a brochure for a rehabilitation camp—and tried to decipher the spinning words. "It says here that dinner is called by the three horns."

HU! HU! HU!

"I know." Percy grinned, ushering the Stolls out the front flap. "I've been here before." Connor and Travis stumbled out. "Just go due east," Percy continued, pointing. "You'll see a big building with a blue bucket out front. If you get lost, Mr. Doc should find you."

"Aren't you coming, too?" Connor asked before they headed off.

"No." Percy shook his head. "But go on. I'll be fine."

Strange. Percy was always hungry.

The Stolls shrugged it off, making their way to the building with the blue bucket.

Connor glared at the commander—Mr. Doc, as it turned out—as he ate his "dinner," which consisted of red slop supposed to be chilly, four saltine crackers, and a bottled water.

Mr. Doc was talking up front, making all the rules nice and clear. "And finally," he was saying, "do not mess with Perseus Jackson."

That got Connor's attention. What did Percy do that was so… bad? Did Percy really kill someone?

Of course not, Connor scolded himself. Percy couldn't even kill anyone in the Second Titan War.

But… what happened?

Some guy wearing gothic make-up and had piercings all over his ears and face decided to be the smart-aleck, and he raised his scrawny little arm, asking, "Oh, what did big bad Jackson do, Mr. Doc? Huh?"

"Something truly terrible," Mr. Doc replied briskly.

The kid snorted. "We're all criminals here, Doc. I can handle some puny little guy. What'd he do?"

Mr. Doc pursed his thin lips. "I don't do story time, Thomas. Go ask Ray over there." He pointed with his chin to some guy sitting in the very back corner, alone. "He was there for one of the… incidents."

Then Mr. Doc was gone from the front, disappearing in the kitchen to talk to other counselors.

Connor felt his arms twitch. He wanted to punch that guy so bad. Travis, who was next to him, took his spoon and whacked Connor's knuckles. "Don't do it, bro. It isn't worth it. We promised Chiron, remember? We stay here 'til our time's up."

"Yeah, okay," Connor mumbled under his breath. "Besides"—his eyes made their way to the guy, Ray, in the back—"I wanna figure some things out."

Travis nodded, his gaze following Thomas, who was making his way towards Ray. "I do, too."

And that was that. It was a silent agreement of sorts.

An investigation would take place, and the subject was Percy Jackson.

They were going to figure out exactly who he was.

The Stolls sat un-comfily on their designated log around the camp fire. Every tent had their own giant log, so Connor and Travis had one to themselves, since Percy wasn't there. There were no s'mores, because the counselors didn't want any of the "inmates" getting a sugar rush and doing something illegal. Ray, the big seventeen year-old with shaggy brown hair and even shaggier eye brows, sat the closest to the fire, in his story telling pose; Travis had to wonder how Ray seemed so comfortable near the fire, when the flames were nearly licking at his hair, but Ray seemed perfectly fine—comfortable, even.

Storytelling was the only thing allowed that could send the inmates hyper-active, and that was only because it tended to scare the delinquents into listening.

"See," Ray began, his voice smooth and clear, perfect for storytelling, "when I was eleven, I did something very bad, and then I got sent here, for character building. In my tent, tent F, there were already seven other boys, all of them older… except for one. His name was Percy Jackson.

"Truthfully, most everyone had to agree that Percy was a nice kid. It didn't seem like there was an evil bone in his body. But, of course, we're in a rehabilitation camp, so he must have done something wrong. I was fine without knowing what Percy had done, but one of our cabin mates, Luke Hooverwalker, did mind. A lot, in fact."

Travis Stoll shivered in his spot. He leaned over to his brother, whispering, "Go figure."

Connor nodded back.

"Luke would constantly pester Percy, asking him, bribing him, even blackmailing him, but Percy didn't do anything. At first."

Ray let the tension rise. "Then Percy started arguing back, butting heads with Luke. Around anyone else, he was fine, nice, but once Luke was in sight, his demeanor would change into something… evil. One day, Luke went too far, and it pushed Percy over the edge. That was when everyone learned what he was here for.

"Percy became still after he saw Luke going through his things—no movement whatsoever. He growled under his breath, a glint in his eyes, and then Percy pulled out his water bottle, just like the ones you all were using during dinner. He screwed off the top… and killed Luke Hooverwalker with it. All the tent mates, including me, went crazy, running out of the tent for our lives. While we were doing that, Percy hid the body.

"The next day, Percy was sent away."

Silence.

"The tent was moved, since it was a murder spot before, and now it is known as tent X. No one ever stayed in it, so it was moved away again, where people suspect the body was laid for a few minutes before being dragged away.

"But the body was never found, and no one ever looked at sweet little Percy the same.

"Because, the thing about Perseus Jackson is, when you're on his good side, he's an angel, but get on his bad side… and you have to go." Ray made a slice across his neck.

The story was over.

A boy, Thomas, laughed. "That's not that scary," he stated, looking smug that he was the only one not shaking.

"Really?" Mr. Doc said, nearing the fire. "If it isn't so scary, why don't you go stay in tent X?"

"Fine," Thomas scoffed.

"Okay then. You're new tent mates are Connor 'nd Travis Stoll"—he nodded at the sons of Hermes—"and Perseus Jackson himself."

That shut Thomas up. "Wha—what?"

"You heard me. Perseus Jackson is staying here, in this camp site. If he's not that scary, why don't you go bunk with him?"

"You're bluffing."

"Am not. Ask the Stolls if I'm lyin'."

Thomas shot them a look. They nodded, their way of saying, 'Yeah, he's here.' "I-I think I'll stay in the tent I'm in, Mr. Doc."

"I thought so." Mr. Doc huffed and walked away. "Lights out in ten!" he shouted over his shoulder.

Boys—because this was a boys' rehabilitation center—began to scatter, but the Stolls stayed where they were, as well as Ray.

"Don't get one his bad side," Ray warned. He made another slice across his neck.

This time, the Stolls really did listen.

For the next week, Connor and Travis Stoll got into a pattern, where they woke up early in the morning, showered, ate breakfast, had some lessons on being 'good boys,' ate lunch, did some obstacle courses, ate dinner, and then listened to stories around the fire pit.

Percy was never in their pattern because he never left the cabin. A guard would always bring him his food and cap-less water bottle, and another guard would always follow him to the bathroom. Handcuffs were always clicked securely around Percy's wrists. The only time they saw him was in the morning before shower and at night before lights out, and the only thing Percy would do was stare at the long, sharp fingernail he had on his left hand.

It was a pattern. That is, until Percy, handcuffs jangling on his wrists, plopped down at their breakfast table. "Hey, Stolls." He bit into his piece of bread. He wasn't smiling.

Let's be realistic here: Connor and Travis may have been ignoring Percy for the past week, and Percy may have known it and the reason.

Boys were too in their conversations to notice the killer sitting in front of them, but that didn't mean people weren't watching—one man and one woman were intently watching Percy, hands on their guns.

Percy didn't seem to mind. "What's been goin' on with you two?" He took another bite, finishing his bread. Sighing when he did not get an answer, Percy said, "Guys, the story, you know it's only meant to scare you, right? Luke and I did butt heads, but he died because Luke and one of his friends were doing a bet to see who could hold the most things in their mouth. The bottle cap got stuck in his throat, and he suffocated. And the body thing? The owners took it away before things got too bad. And I was sent away because my time was over." He stared at them, eyebrows raised. "That's it."

Travis thought for a while. It actually made since, but there was still one more thing… "So why were you sent here?"

Percy sighed. "For attempted murder." Both Travis and Connor's eyes widened, but Percy fixed his words: "Not like that, I swear. Some guy and I, we weren't on the best of terms, and we got into a fight. I beat him up—bad. So bad that people thought I was trying to kill him. I swear on the River Styx, I've never killed anyone before, and I don't plan on it, either." There was rumbling above, and Travis felt silly for doubting Percy in the first place.

Connor poked Travis's side. "Look."

The whole cafeteria was silent, all eyes on Percy Jackson, the killer.

Ray's eyes cut through like a knife though, penetrating into the soul. Percy glared back.

Connor had a feeling this was what it was like to be on Percy's bad side.

At least that part was true: Never ever cross paths with Perseus Jackson.

Percy and Ray got into a fight, a bloody one. Apparently, Ray was positive Percy had murdered Luke Hooverwalker and was a danger to everyone. They had to be sent to their respective tents after literally being ripped apart without lunch or dinner; they were only allowed to come out for restroom breaks and the pit fire.

Neither one went to the fire, though.

"Both are going to jail when they hit eighteen, no doubt about it," Mr. Doc had said. "They've both done bad things, and there's no gettin' out of it."

Connor and Travis took this time to talk about Percy quietly at the rowdy camp fire. (Without Ray, there was no storyteller, so the boys just talked.)

"Why do you think people say he murdered someone?" Connor asked, ducking his head as a tree branch came flying by.

"Remember, they don't know him like we do. He's the guy who tried to kill when he was eleven to all of them," responded Travis, burning holes in Mr. Doc—for believing such an incredulous thing and for not stopping the throwing of objects.

"I guess… Why do you think Percy never tried to correct them?"

"My guess is that he did, just nobody believed him. Crazed killer, right?"

"Yeah, yeah."

It went on like that for a while, each brother asking a questioned easily answered, until there was ten minutes until lights out.

That was when it happened.

A gun shot rang through the air.

Then another.

Another.

"Help!" The voice sounded strangled. Dying.

It came from tent X.

Ray, whose tent was on the opposite side, burst out of the flap, sprinting toward tent X. He ran passed the fire, eyes burning with… with hate, it seemed.

Mr. Doc came out of his shock next. "Stay here!" he ordered the boys. "Except for you, Stolls. You two come with me."

And all three were sprinting to the tent.

Tent X.

The tent where a murder was made.

The tent where another might be attempted at the very moment.

When Connor made it to the tent, he had made another conclusion: Percy's guard was trying to kill him.

That was not what he saw.

Percy had a chokehold around his guard's neck, a gun pressed at his temple. "Don't come any closer," Percy barked, tightening his hold around the man's neck.

Ray was in front of Percy, rigid and angry. "Percy, put him down. He's done nothing to you."

"No."

"Perseus"—Mr. Doc stepped forward—"put him down."

Percy glared, and then he gave one last squeeze before dropping the guard like he was dead weight. Like he was dead. "Fine." Percy's eyes traveled all over the room before landing on Ray, and Connor couldn't help but remember the words: "Don't get on his bad side."

Ray had done exactly that, and now he was going to pay the ultimate price.

Percy sprung forward and wrapped one arm around Ray's neck, putting him in a chokehold, and pressed the gun to Ray's temple, just like what he had done to the guard. "Move and I kill him. And maybe all of you."

Ray was breathing raspy breaths, trying but failing to bring air to his lungs.

"Percy," Travis tried to sooth, "you don't want to do this."

"And what if I do?" Percy, if possible, tightened his grip even more, and then he inched his way to the front flap of the tent.

"Then you aren't Percy Jackson," Travis replied tightly.

"Sorry, kid, but you don't know anything about me." Bang! Blood surrounded Ray's head, and he went limp in Percy's arms.

And then Perseus Jackson, The Killer, ran off, dragging the dead body behind him.

Neither killer nor dead body was found.

Connor and Travis were back in New York, about to catch a taxi to Camp Half-Blood, when they spotted him.

Perseus Jackson, not even fazed by his murder, was walking down the sidewalk. "Hey, Stolls!" he called, smiling cheerfully.

"Don't come near us," Travis growled, and Percy took a step back, but that smile never left his face.

"What's wrong with you two?" he asked innocently, as if he didn't know.

"You killed him," Connor stated bluntly, fingers itching for his sword.

"No I didn't. Don't you remember the promise?" Percy leaned against the building behind him, still completely happy.

"What promise?" Connor didn't remember a promise or anything of the sort. Of course, anything good Percy had ever done was erased and replaced by the death of Ray.

"The one on the River Styx." It was Percy's turn to be blunt; he seemed to be enjoying their discomfort.

"What…? Oh…" Travis remembered, but then… "But you killed him."

"No, I didn't," Percy chuckled. "Do I look cursed to you?"

"You're The Killer," Connor insisted. "You should be cursed. You've killed people."

Percy looked amused, as if he knew something they didn't. "No I'm not. I'm The Magician." He waved his fingers around like a magician.

"What does that…," Travis looked up to find Percy gone, "even mean…"

Perseus Jackson had disappeared, like a magician.

He wasn't seen for a long, long time.

Much, much later, when the Stolls had long since put away their life of crime and instead became business travelers, the two heard of a storyteller in Texas. Apparently, he was amazing, and the Stolls wanted to see if he was as good as Ray.

Connor and Travis sat on a log around the fire, managing to get one for themselves except for a man with jet-black hair and a lop-sided grin and set of sea green eyes, and waited. A man, around their age with shaggy hair and even shaggier eyebrows, sat closest to the fire, in his storytelling pose; Travis had to wonder how the man seemed so comfortable near the fire, when the flames were nearly licking at his hair, but he seemed perfectly fine—comfortable, even.

"See," the man began, his voice smooth and clear, perfect for storytelling, "when I was younger, much, much younger, I made a mistake—one that cost me my freedom. I was only a juvenile back then but as soon as I hit eighteen, I was to go to prison, and I didn't want that. I had messed up my life, though. There was no going back, no changing. At least, it seemed that way.

"There was a man, a boy back then, who was known as The Killer to those who didn't know, but as The Magician to those who knew what he was truly capable of.

"The Magician had many talents, but his best one had to be his disappearing act, because not only could he make himself disappear off the face of the earth, but anyone who wished to vanish from their pasts. He could give you a do-over, for a price…"

Did ya like?

~XxxXGreek GeekXxxX