Y/N, the camp's resident jester, always had a joke ready—even when the battlefield turned grim.You were the court jester of Camp Half-Blood. While others polished their celestial bronze swords, you polished your juggling knives and perfected your pratfalls. You were the one who made the Ares cabin groan and the Aphrodite cabin giggle, the one who painted a smiling face on Athena's war shields.But a war with the Titans leaves no room for laughter, and the Battle of Manhattan was a bloodbath.Monsters swarmed the Labyrinth entrance near Central Park. You fought fiercely, but a stray drakon strike caught you off guard. Acid burned through your armor, leaving a fatal wound. You collapsed against a cold brick wall, gasping for air as your vision blurred.Annabeth and Percy rushed to your side, their faces pale and desperate as they assessed the damage. They tried to staunch the bleeding, but they both knew it was too late.You let out a weak, rattling breath that turned into a wet, painful laugh. A single sob escaped your lips, quickly swallowed by another chuckle."Well..." you wheezed, blood welling up at the corner of your mouth. "At least... at least I won't have to... to clean the stables anymore.""[Y/N], don't talk, save your strength," Annabeth pleaded, her voice cracking as she pressed her hands against the glowing, smoking armor.You shook your head, your trademark crooked grin fighting through the agony. "What's the matter, Wise Girl? You look like you've... seen a ghost." You coughed, your eyes fluttering. "Guess I'll be one... in a second.""Stop it," Percy choked out, unsheathing Riptide as if he could somehow fight off death itself. "You're going to be fine. Apollo's cabin will heal you. We just need to hold on."You reached out, your fingers stained with nectar and ichor, brushing against Percy's cheek. "Hey, Seaweed Brain. Look at the bright side. If I die... I finally get to... to ask Hades for a refund on that... that Underworld tour."Your eyes drifted shut, the mischievous spark in them dimming. Your chest gave one final, shuddering hitch, and your hand dropped to the pavement. But even in death, your lips remained parted in a faint, quiet smile. You died exactly how you lived: making them laugh.