Percy wasn't a hero. Not after the second giant war, after everything he'd done. The Olympians (read: Zeus) had decreed that he was too dangerous to live. But live he did. It was a strange feeling, being mortal. The Gods had taken pity (read: Poseidon threatened them) on him, and merely stripped away his Godly side, but, being the lovely people they were, had left him sight, so he could see all the monsters and gods, and do nothing about it. He was mortal.

Annabeth had left him, claiming that he was in danger from monster attacks that her demigod-ness drew to them. He had argued, and she told him to get lost.

After that, Percy left. His father and, surprisingly, his Uncle, Hades, helped him as much as they could. They made sure he had just enough money to be clothed, fed and under a roof each month.

Percy roamed the world, looking for everything and nothing. He had no purpose.

Until, whilst in Nepal, a man in odd clothing and a red cloak had offered him salvation. A purpose.

A certain Doctor Stephen Strange.