The thing about moving to a new city—and Percy was forming opinions about this with the particular anxiety that came from doing normal things after a century of abnormal things—was that it required an absurd amount of paperwork.
"This is ridiculous," Percy muttered, staring at the stack of documents spread across the small table in their new apartment. "I've fought literal gods. I've survived Tartarus. I've joined the Justice League. But apparently the thing that's going to defeat me is bureaucracy."
"You're being dramatic," Mera said from the kitchen area—which was barely large enough to qualify as an area, more like a corner with appliances and delusions of grandeur. She was attempting to understand the concept of a coffee maker, having decided that surface dweller beverages were a mystery she needed to solve. "It's just forms. You fill them out, submit them, and then you exist officially. It's very straightforward."
"There are seventeen pages here. Seventeen. For one college application."
"Batman said he handled the difficult parts. Fabricated your entire educational history, complete with transcripts showing you're an excellent student with documented learning differences who took several gap years for—what did he call it?"
"'Personal development and travel abroad,'" Percy read from one of the documents. "Which is technically accurate if you consider Tartarus abroad and survival horror personal development."
"See? Technically accurate is the best kind of accurate." Mera finally gave up on the coffee maker—which had started making concerning noises—and joined him at the table. "What's the application asking for now?"
"'Describe your academic goals and how Coast City University's Marine Biology program aligns with your career aspirations.'" Percy set down the paper and rubbed his temples. "How do I explain that my girlfriend—who's dead in another dimension—wanted me to finish my education, and also I can literally talk to fish so Marine Biology seems both practical and emotionally significant?"
"You write: 'I'm passionate about marine ecosystems and want to contribute to ocean conservation efforts through scientific research. Coast City University's program offers hands-on field experience and strong research opportunities that align with my goal of protecting marine environments.'"
Percy stared at her. "That's—actually really good."
"I'm very good at bureaucracy. Xebel training included extensive diplomatic writing." Mera pulled the paper toward her and began writing in neat, confident script. "I'll help you with the essays. You handle the legal identity verification and housing paperwork."
"I thought Batman handled the identity verification?"
"He created the documents. You still have to memorize the backstory." She slid another paper across the table—this one with Batman's distinctive precise handwriting covering both sides. "Your name is Perseus 'Percy' Jackson. Born August 18th, 1998 in Manhattan, New York. Mother: Sally Jackson, deceased. Father: unknown. You attended Yancy Academy, Meriwether College Prep, and Goode High School before taking gap years to travel and work various jobs related to marine conservation. You have documented ADHD and dyslexia, which qualifies you for academic accommodations. You're twenty-seven years old—"
"I'm seventeen," Percy interrupted.
"You're twenty-seven according to your fabricated documents," Mera corrected. "Batman thought it would be suspicious if someone who spent years traveling looked too young. Also, you look older than seventeen."
"Tartarus ages you."
"In many ways, yes. Bureaucratically, you're twenty-seven. Biologically—" She paused, studying him with the clinical assessment she brought to everything. "—honestly unclear. Your divine blood probably stopped or slowed aging. You could be seventeen or seventy and I wouldn't be able to tell."
"That's not comforting."
"It's not meant to be comforting. It's meant to be accurate." Mera returned to the coffee maker, which had stopped making concerning noises and started making worse noises. "Percy, how do you think this works? I've been pressing buttons for ten minutes and nothing's happening except increasingly alarming sounds."
Percy abandoned the paperwork—gratefully—and investigated the coffee maker. "You have to add water. And coffee grounds. It's not a magic device. It's a machine that heats water."
"Surface dwellers have such complicated relationships with beverages. In Atlantis, we just drink—" She stopped. "—actually, I'm not sure what we drink in Atlantis. Kelp tea? Bioluminescent fish juice? I never thought about it."
"That's concerning."
"Many things about Atlantean culture are concerning when you examine them closely."
Percy managed to coax the coffee maker into actual function—a small victory in a morning full of bureaucratic defeats—and they both ended up sitting on the floor of their mostly empty apartment, drinking coffee that tasted like accomplishment and watching Coast City wake up outside their window.
The apartment was small. Very small. Studio apartment small, which meant one room that served as bedroom, living room, and kitchen simultaneously. But it was theirs. Their first place together, away from Atlantis's palace opulence and the Watchtower's unsettling proximity to space.
Their place.
The thought made Percy's chest feel warm in ways that had nothing to do with the coffee.
"We need furniture," Mera observed, looking around the bare space. "Significantly more furniture. Currently we have: one table, two chairs, and a mattress on the floor. That's not enough furniture for functional adult living."
"Batman said the League would provide a stipend for—" Percy consulted the papers. "—'reasonable living expenses and mission-related costs.' I think furniture counts as reasonable."
"Batman's definition of reasonable is suspect. He probably thinks reasonable furniture is a single chair and a cave full of crime-fighting equipment."
"To be fair, that is his living situation."
"Which proves my point about his judgment being questionable." Mera set down her coffee and pulled out her phone—a device she'd mastered with frightening speed, going from "what is this glowing rectangle" to "competent user who sends unnecessarily long text messages" in approximately three days. "I'm looking up furniture stores. We need beds that aren't on floors. Couches for sitting that isn't floor-related. Possibly curtains so the neighbors can't watch us struggle with basic adulting."
"Curtains are good. Privacy is good. I'm very in favor of privacy."
"Says the man who spent a century in a place with no privacy, no personal space, and constant threat of death."
"Which is exactly why I appreciate privacy now," Percy countered. "Tartarus taught me to value things like walls, doors that lock, and windows that don't open directly onto hellscapes."
Mera laughed—bright and genuine—and the sound filled their small apartment with something that felt like home in ways that space and furniture never could.
"We're doing this," she said quietly, and her voice carried wonder. "We're actually doing this. Living together. Going to college. Being—" She gestured vaguely at the apartment. "—being normal. Or attempting normal. With varying success."
"Is this what you wanted?" Percy asked. "When you decided to join the League and follow me to the surface, is this what you imagined?"
"I didn't imagine anything. I just knew I wanted to be wherever you were." Mera's expression grew more serious. "But yes. This is—this is good. This is better than good. We're building something, Percy. Something that's ours. Not Atlantis's. Not the League's. Just ours."
Percy reached over and took her hand—a gesture that had become natural over the past week, as natural as breathing or fighting or catastrophizing about paperwork.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For this. For coming with me. For not—for not deciding I'm too much work and leaving me to figure this out alone."
"Percy Jackson, you're absolutely too much work. You're a disaster of epic proportions held together with determination and poor coping mechanisms." Mera squeezed his hand gently. "But you're *my* disaster. And I'm staying for as long as you'll have me."
"Forever?"
"Let's start with 'until the furniture arrives' and work our way up to forever."
"That's very pragmatic."
"Someone has to be pragmatic. You're too busy being romantically traumatized."
"That's not a thing."
"It's absolutely a thing. You're like a Gothic novel protagonist but with more water powers and fewer dramatic moors."
Before Percy could formulate a response to that—which would probably involve pointing out that she was the one who'd made dramatic declarations about staying forever—his phone buzzed with an incoming message.
**Batman:** Orientation at Watchtower. 1400 hours. Both of you. Bring completed identity memorization materials.
"Batman texts like he's filing military reports," Mera observed, reading over Percy's shoulder.
"Batman does everything like he's filing military reports. I think he files military reports about filing military reports."
**Percy:** We'll be there. Do we need to bring anything else?
**Batman:** Proper attitude. Willingness to follow instructions. Acceptance that my protocols exist for good reasons.
**Percy:** That's a lot of abstract concepts to bring.
**Batman:** I'm aware. Bring them anyway.
Mera started laughing again, and Percy found himself joining her—two people sitting on the floor of an empty apartment, drinking terrible coffee, preparing for superhero orientation at a space station while also trying to become functional surface-dwelling adults.
It was absurd.
It was perfect.
It was exactly what Annabeth would have wanted for him—moving forward, building a life, choosing hope even when fear seemed easier.
*I'm trying, Wise Girl*, Percy thought, looking around their small apartment with its promise of furniture and normalcy. *I'm really trying.*
---
The Watchtower felt less intimidating the second time—or maybe Percy was just getting better at pretending giant space stations didn't violate his fundamental understanding of where people should exist.
Mera still gripped his arm as they transported up, but her knuckles weren't quite as white this time. Progress.
"I'm acclimating," she announced as they materialized in the transport bay. "Soon I'll be completely comfortable with being in space surrounded by void where there's no water for thousands of miles."
"You say that, but your eye is twitching."
"That's unrelated stress. From the coffee maker incident. Very traumatic."
Batman was waiting for them in the conference room—because of course he was, punctuality apparently being genetic among brooding vigilantes—with what could only be described as an *enthusiastic* amount of orientation materials.
Folders. Tablets. Physical binders with color-coded tabs. A holographic display showing what appeared to be organizational charts that would make corporate managers weep with envy.
"You're early," Batman said, which Percy suspected was as close to a compliment as they'd get. "Good. We have significant ground to cover."
"How significant?" Mera asked warily.
"Four hours. Possibly five if you ask questions, which you should, because understanding protocol prevents missions from going catastrophically wrong."
"Four hours," Percy repeated. "Of orientation."
"Abbreviated orientation. Full orientation is two weeks. But Diana insisted on the condensed version, something about 'not overwhelming new members' and 'remembering they're already traumatized.'" Batman's tone suggested he disagreed with Diana's assessment. "We're covering essentials only."
"What counts as essential?"
"Everything." Batman activated the holographic display. "The Justice League operates on global scale with cosmic implications. We respond to threats ranging from street-level crime to existential planetary danger. You need to understand command structure, communication protocols, emergency procedures, legal authorization frameworks, and approximately forty-seven types of threat classification."
"Forty-seven," Mera said flatly.
"Forty-eight if you count 'Batman had a concerning dream' as its own category," Flash said, zipping into the conference room with his characteristic disregard for dramatic entrances. "Which I do. It's happened enough to warrant classification."
"My dreams are not threat classifications."
"Your dreams lead to contingency plans that lead to protocol updates. That's functionally the same thing." Flash dropped into a chair and spun it around to face Percy and Mera. "Welcome to orientation! I'm here for moral support and to make sure Batman remembers you're people, not just new variables in his security equations."
"I'm aware they're people."
"Are you though? Are you really?"
"Yes. That's why I'm providing thorough orientation rather than throwing them into crisis situations unprepared. People require preparation. Variables do not."
"That's the most Bruce thing you've ever said."
Diana entered before Batman could respond—probably deliberately, reading the room's energy and deciding intervention was necessary. "Good afternoon, Percy, Mera. How was your first week in Coast City?"
"Bureaucratically exhausting," Percy said. "But productive. I think I successfully filled out seventeen pages of college applications without lying too badly."
"Batman fabricated most of your background," Diana pointed out. "The lies are pre-built into your documentation."
"That somehow makes it worse."
"Or significantly easier, depending on perspective." Diana took a seat at the conference table, her presence somehow making the intimidating space feel more welcoming. "Bruce, perhaps we could start with the practical aspects of League membership? Communication systems, emergency protocols, basic team coordination?"
"That's what I was planning," Batman said.
"Before or after the forty-seven threat classifications?"
"After. Threat awareness precedes operational capability."
"Or operational capability enables appropriate threat response, making it the logical starting point."
Percy watched this exchange with growing amusement—two of Earth's greatest heroes having what was essentially a philosophical argument about training methodology while Flash spun in his chair and made quiet "fight fight fight" noises.
"We could compromise," Mera suggested carefully. "Cover threats and protocols simultaneously? Explain threat types while demonstrating how we'd respond?"
Batman and Diana looked at her.
Then at each other.
Then back to her.
"That's—actually efficient," Batman admitted, with the tone of someone making a significant concession. "We'll proceed with integrated approach. Flash, stop spinning."
"I wasn't spinning."
"You're still spinning. Currently. As you claim you're not spinning."
Flash looked down at his still-rotating chair. "Okay, fair point."
The next four hours were—comprehensive.
Batman walked them through the Justice League's organizational structure, which was simultaneously more complex and simpler than Percy expected. There was a core team—the founders, the people who made major decisions—and then extended members who participated based on specialization and availability.
Percy and Mera were classified as "Provisional Extended Members" which apparently meant they'd participate in team operations but wouldn't vote on major policy decisions until completing their probationary period.
"Voting rights are earned through demonstrated competence and integration," Batman explained. "You've proven capable individually. Now you need to prove capable as team members."
"How do we prove that?" Percy asked.
"Don't die. Don't cause international incidents. Don't accidentally start wars or dimensional breaches. Follow orders even when they seem counterintuitive. Trust the team even when trust is difficult." Batman pulled up another display. "Statistically, most new members struggle with the trust component. Heroes tend to be self-reliant by necessity. Learning to depend on others requires conscious effort."
Percy thought about his century in Tartarus—alone, surviving through pure self-sufficiency, learning that depending on anyone meant vulnerability he couldn't afford.
"That's going to be hard for me," he admitted. "The trust thing. I've spent a long time operating solo."
"I know. Your psychological profile indicates significant difficulty with vulnerability and collaboration." Batman's lenses fixed on him. "Which is why we're starting you on team exercises. Low-stakes missions with full backup. You'll learn to trust by experiencing situations where trust produces better outcomes than isolation."
"That sounds like therapy."
"All effective training is therapy. Just better disguised."
They covered communication systems—each League member received a specialized comm device that connected to the Watchtower's network, allowed instant contact with other members, and apparently could survive orbital reentry "in case of emergency."
Percy didn't ask what kind of emergency involved surviving orbital reentry. He suspected he didn't want to know.
They covered threat classifications, which ranged from "street-level crime" (Level 1) to "cosmic entities threatening reality itself" (Level 10, sometimes called "Tuesday" by League veterans who'd become concerningly blasé about existential danger).
"You'll primarily respond to Level 3-5 threats during probation," Batman said. "Significant but manageable danger. City-scale rather than global. This allows skill development without catastrophic consequences if you make mistakes."
"What happens if we encounter Level 6 or higher?" Mera asked.
"You call for backup immediately. Don't engage. Don't attempt heroics. Survival and intelligence gathering become priority over direct confrontation." Batman's voice carried the weight of hard-learned experience. "Heroes who try to punch above their weight class die. Frequently. Don't be those heroes."
"Encouraging," Percy muttered.
"It's realistic. Reality doesn't care about encouragement."
They covered emergency protocols—what to do if communications failed, if the Watchtower was compromised, if they were captured or mind-controlled or otherwise compromised.
"Mind control happens more frequently than you'd expect," Flash said cheerfully. "Pretty much everyone's been mind-controlled at least once. It's like a rite of passage. Very annoying but statistically inevitable."
"What do we do if we're mind-controlled?" Percy asked.
"Follow your training even under compulsion. Most mind control can't override deeply ingrained instincts. If you've trained to resist or signal compromise, your body will attempt it even when your mind can't." Diana's expression was serious. "It's not perfect. But it's better than nothing."
"And if that doesn't work?"
"Then we stop you," Batman said bluntly. "By whatever means necessary. Preferably non-lethal. But stopping compromised heroes before they cause catastrophic damage takes priority over individual safety."
The room went quiet. Heavy.
Percy felt Mera's hand find his under the table—grounding, present, a reminder that they weren't in this alone even when protocols discussed scenarios where they might need to be stopped by their own team.
"I understand," Percy said quietly. "That's—that's actually smart. I'd rather someone stop me than let me hurt innocents because I'm being controlled."
"Good attitude," Diana said. "That's exactly the mindset we need. Heroes who prioritize protection over ego."
They broke for lunch—or what passed for lunch on a space station, which involved food that was nutritious but suspicious and drinks that tasted like someone's enthusiastic interpretation of what flavor should be.
Percy sat with Mera near one of the windows, watching Earth rotate slowly below them, trying to process everything they'd learned.
"This is really happening," Mera said quietly. "We're really Justice League members. Provisional, monitored, probably-going-to-be-under-surveillance-for-months members, but members."
"How do you feel about it?"
"Terrified. Excited. Like I'm about to make either the best decision of my life or a catastrophically stupid one." She looked at him, her expression vulnerable in ways she rarely allowed. "How about you?"
"Same. All of that." Percy reached for her hand again, that gesture becoming familiar, becoming comfort. "But Mera—I'm glad you're here. Glad I'm not doing this alone. I don't think I could do this alone."
"You could. You've done harder things alone. But you don't have to." She squeezed his hand. "We're partners now. In League operations and terrible apartments and bureaucratic nightmares. All of it."
"Partners," Percy repeated, testing the word. It felt right. Solid. Like something he could build on.
The afternoon session covered practical demonstrations—Batman walking them through the Watchtower's various facilities, the medical bay (unsettlingly comprehensive), the training rooms (terrifyingly advanced), the armory (concerning on multiple levels), and the monitor room where League members tracked global threats in real-time.
Currently, the displays showed:
- Level 2 bank robbery in Metropolis (Superman was handling it, because apparently even gods did street crime when they were in the neighborhood)
- Level 4 magical disturbance in London (Zatanna was investigating)
- Level 3 supervillain breakout in Central City (Flash had left orientation early to deal with this, explaining "it's basically my Tuesday")
- Multiple Level 1-2 incidents worldwide that local heroes were managing without League intervention
"We don't respond to everything," Batman explained. "Most threats are handled by local heroes, law enforcement, or specialized teams. League only deploys for situations that exceed local capability or have potential for escalation."
"How do you decide what needs League response?" Percy asked.
"Threat assessment algorithms, predictive modeling, and thirty years of experience recognizing patterns." Batman gestured at the displays. "Computer handles initial classification. I review and adjust based on context. Team leads make final deployment decisions."
"You review every global incident?" Mera asked, horrified.
"Someone has to. Superman and I rotate monitoring shifts. Diana covers when we're unavailable. J'onn provides telepathic early warning if something triggers his cosmic awareness."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It's necessary. Threats don't wait for convenient timing."
They finished orientation as Coast City's sunset painted Earth's western hemisphere in golds and oranges—visible through the Watchtower's windows in a display that would've been beautiful if Percy wasn't so mentally exhausted from information overload.
"Final items," Batman said, pulling out two small boxes from—Percy wasn't sure where he'd been keeping them. Utility belt? Pocket dimension? Batman's organizational system defied conventional understanding.
He opened the boxes to reveal—
"Comm devices," Diana explained, taking one and demonstrating. "Earpiece for communication, paired with a subdermal tracker for location. The tracker is optional but recommended. Allows team to find you in emergencies."
"Subdermal," Mera repeated. "Meaning under the skin."
"Small injection, heals within hours, completely unnoticeable after installation. Standard for all active League members." Diana's expression was understanding. "I know it feels invasive. But these devices have saved lives. Multiple times."
Percy looked at the tiny earpiece—barely larger than a standard earbud, probably packed with technology he couldn't begin to understand.
"What's the range?" he asked.
"Global. Satellite uplink means you can contact League anywhere on Earth. Further if you're in space or other dimensions, though signal quality degrades." Batman's tone was matter-of-fact. "These are your lifeline. Learn to use them reflexively. When situation goes wrong, calling for backup immediately rather than attempting solo heroics increases survival probability by seventy-three percent."
"Specific number."
"Based on extensive data analysis. Heroes who call for backup survive. Heroes who don't—don't."
Percy took the comm device. It was heavier than it looked, weighted with responsibility and expectations and the reality that he was now part of something bigger than himself.
"Okay," he said. "Okay. We're doing this."
The subdermal tracker installation was—uncomfortable but brief. League's medical bay had the procedure down to a science, literally five minutes from start to finish, and Percy barely felt the injection before it was done.
Mera went next, gripping his hand with more force than strictly necessary, but she didn't complain. Didn't flinch. Just—endured, because that's what they did now. Endured uncomfortable things in service of larger goals.
"Congratulations," Diana said as they left medical. "You're officially Justice League provisional members. Tracked, monitored, and ready to respond to threats that exceed normal human capability."
"How do you make that sound both inspiring and terrifying simultaneously?" Mera asked.
"Practice. Lots of practice." Diana smiled. "Now go home. Rest. Enjoy your apartment and terrible furniture decisions. You've earned normalcy."
"When's our first mission?" Percy asked.
"When something happens that needs your specific skills. Could be tomorrow. Could be next week. Could be—" Diana's comm beeped. She glanced at it, her expression shifting to something more serious. "—could be right now. Level 4 incident in Coast City. Creature from the bay attacking the waterfront. They're requesting hydrokinetic support."
Percy and Mera looked at each other.
"That's us," Mera said. "We're hydrokinetic support."
"You're provisional members on your first day," Batman's voice came through the room's speakers—because apparently he monitored everything everywhere always. "Protocol dictates experienced League members accompany you on first missions."
"I'll go," Diana said immediately. "Coast City is close. We can be there in minutes. Percy, Mera—this is Level 4. Significant threat but manageable with proper support. You'll take lead on the hydrokinetic aspects. I'll provide backup and tactical guidance."
"We're ready," Percy said, surprised to find he meant it.
"Then let's move. The creature is currently destroying a marina. Property damage is acceptable. Civilian casualties are not."
They transported down—Percy was getting disturbingly comfortable with the sensation of being disassembled and reassembled across vast distances—and materialized on Coast City's waterfront just in time to see something massive and tentacled pull itself from the bay.
"Oh," Mera breathed. "That's—that's significantly larger than I expected."
The creature was easily thirty feet tall, covered in scales that gleamed with bioluminescence, sporting at least eight tentacles that were currently smashing through boats and piers with enthusiastic destruction. It looked like someone had taken a squid, an eel, and a particularly aggressive nightmare, mixed them in a blender, and given the result both size and attitude problems.
"Level 4," Percy said. "Right. Level 4. We can handle Level 4."
"You can," Diana confirmed, drawing her sword. "But remember—property damage is acceptable. The boats can be replaced. You can't. If situation exceeds your capability, call for backup immediately."
"What's the plan?" Mera asked, water already gathering around her hands in defensive spirals.
Percy reached out with his senses, feeling the bay—the currents, the depths, the creature's movements. It was agitated, confused, possibly hurt. Not deliberately malicious so much as scared and lashing out.
"It's an animal," he said. "Just an animal. Probably came up from deep water, got disoriented by the noise and lights of the city. It's not attacking—it's panicking."
"Can you calm it?" Diana asked.
"Maybe. I can—I can try to communicate. Sea creatures usually listen to me. Usually." Percy stepped forward, toward the water's edge, ignoring Mera's worried sound. "Hey! Big and tentacled! Can you hear me?"
The creature's attention snapped to him—multiple eyes focusing with unsettling intensity.
Then, impossibly, it *spoke*.
Not with words. Not with sounds. But with that particular language of the ocean that Percy understood instinctively—currents and pressures and meanings that bypassed language entirely.
*PAIN. NOISE. SCARED. WRONG PLACE. WANT HOME.*
"Okay," Percy said quietly. "Okay. You're scared. I get that. Cities are loud and overwhelming. But you can't stay here. You're hurting people's things. They're scared too."
*NOT TRYING TO HURT. JUST WANT—*
The creature thrashed again, and one of its tentacles came down hard enough to shatter a dock.
"Percy, it's going to hurt someone!" Mera called.
"I know! I'm working on it!" Percy reached deeper, pulling on his father's authority—not commanding, not forcing, but *asking*. "Please. I'm Poseidon's son. The ocean is my father's domain, and you're his creature. I'm asking you—asking, not demanding—can you please stop destroying things and let me help you get home?"
The creature went still.
Its eyes—all of them—fixed on Percy with something that looked like recognition.
*POSEIDON'S SON. KNOW YOU. OCEAN REMEMBERS. OCEAN SAYS YOU'RE SAFE. YOU'RE FAMILY.*
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm family. So let's—let's figure this out together, okay? Where's home? Where do you need to go?"
The creature showed him—not with words but with feelings, impressions, coordinates Percy shouldn't understand but did. Deep water. Pacific trench. Cold and dark and safe.
"That's really far," Percy said. "But I can—Mera, can you help me create a current? Something strong enough to pull it back to open ocean?"
"I can try." Mera moved to his side, her hands already glowing with hydrokinetic energy. "What do you need?"
"Big water. Lots of it. A wave strong enough to lift something this size and carry it past the harbor into deep water."
"That's—that's going to flood the waterfront."
"I know. But it's better than fighting it. Better than hurting it when it's just scared and confused."
Diana stepped forward. "Do it. I'll handle evacuation. Get the creature home safely."
Percy and Mera reached out together—his power wild and instinctive, hers refined and controlled—and the bay *responded*.
Water rose. Not violently. Not destructively. But deliberately, purposefully, gathering itself into a wave that was less tsunami and more very enthusiastic tide.
It lifted the creature gently—carefully—and began pulling it toward open water.
*THANK YOU. POSEIDON'S SON. GOOD. KIND. OCEAN REMEMBERS.*
"You're welcome," Percy said quietly. "Get home safe."
The wave carried the creature out past the harbor, past the breakwater, into deep water where it belonged. Then, satisfied with its passenger delivered, the wave collapsed back into normal ocean, leaving only ripples and the faint glow of bioluminescence fading into darkness.
Percy stood at the water's edge, breathing hard, feeling the strain of moving that much water with that much precision.
Mera was beside him immediately. "Percy? Are you okay?"
"I'm—yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. Just—that was a lot of water."
"That was incredible," Diana said, and when Percy turned, he found her smiling. "Percy, you didn't fight. You didn't destroy. You *communicated*. You found a solution that saved the creature and minimized damage. That's—that's exactly what we need in League members."
"It was just scared," Percy said. "Didn't seem right to hurt it for being scared."
"Most people would have attacked first and asked questions never." Diana sheathed her sword. "You chose compassion. That's rare. That's valuable."
They stood there for a moment—three heroes on a damaged waterfront, watching emergency services arrive, watching the sun set over Coast City's bay—and Percy felt something settle in his chest.
Purpose.
Direction.
The reason he'd been looking for since escaping Tartarus.
"Come on," Mera said gently, tugging his arm. "Let's go home. Our terrible empty apartment is waiting for us."
"It's not terrible. It's—efficiently sized."
"It's terrible. But it's ours. And I believe we were promised furniture delivery tomorrow."
They transported back to the Watchtower—briefly, just long enough to file a mission report with Batman who seemed grudgingly satisfied with their performance—then headed home to Coast City.
To their apartment.
To the beginning of something new.
---
The thing about furniture delivery—and Percy was discovering this with the particular frustration that came from being powerful enough to reshape water but helpless against retail logistics—was that "next day delivery" was apparently a flexible concept.
"They said Tuesday," Percy said, staring at his phone like glaring would make the delivery notification appear faster. "It's Wednesday. It's been Wednesday for three hours."
"Maybe Tuesday was Pacific Time and we're in—wait, we are Pacific Time. We're in Coast City." Mera looked up from her laptop, where she'd been working on her own fabricated educational history—Batman had arranged for her to audit marine biology courses at CCU, giving her surface-world credentials and access to Percy's classes. "Should we call them?"
"I called them. Twice. First time they said the truck was 'running behind schedule.' Second time they said the driver was 'experiencing delays.' I don't know what the delays are but I'm starting to suspect they involve deliberate sabotage of my sanity."
"You survived Tartarus for a century but furniture delivery is what breaks you?"
"Tartarus was straightforward. Kill things or die. Furniture delivery is—it's chaos dressed as civilization. It's the illusion of order revealing itself to be lies and scheduling conflicts."
Mera started laughing—that bright, genuine sound that made their empty apartment feel less empty—and Percy found himself joining her despite his frustration.
They were sitting on the floor again. Still. Their mattress was still on the floor because bed frames apparently existed in a quantum state of "will arrive tomorrow" that never quite resolved into "has arrived today."
Percy's phone buzzed.
**Diana:** First mission assessment: Excellent work. You demonstrated creativity, compassion, and tactical thinking. Batman is updating your threat response authorization based on performance.
**Percy:** Thanks. Does that mean we can handle Level 5 threats now?
**Diana:** Let's not get ahead of ourselves. But you're cleared for solo Level 3 incidents if backup is unavailable. That's significant progress for day one.
**Percy:** What about furniture delivery? Is that a Level 3 incident?
**Diana:** ???
**Percy:** Our couch hasn't arrived. It's been 24 hours past the delivery window. I'm considering it a hostage situation.
**Diana:** I'm forwarding this to Barry. He loves furniture shopping and will absolutely stage a rescue operation if you ask nicely.
**Percy:** I'm not sure Flash staging a furniture rescue is better than waiting.
**Diana:** You're not wrong. But it would be entertaining.
Before Percy could respond, the apartment buzzer sounded—harsh and unexpected and somehow accusatory.
Mera was up immediately, pressing the intercom. "Hello?"
"Furniture delivery!" A cheerful voice crackled through the speaker. "Got a whole truck's worth of stuff for unit 3B. That you folks?"
"FINALLY," Percy said, with perhaps more intensity than the situation warranted. "Yes! That's us! We'll buzz you up!"
The next hour involved what could only be described as organized chaos—two delivery people wrestling furniture up three flights of stairs (the elevator was broken, because of course it was), Percy and Mera trying to direct placement of items they'd selected mostly based on "it looks comfortable" and "Batman's stipend will cover this, right?"
They ended up with:
- One couch (dark blue, comfortably worn, found at an estate sale because new furniture felt wasteful)
- One actual bed frame with mattress (their floor mattress had been a temporary solution that was becoming worryingly permanent)
- A kitchen table with four chairs (even though there were only two of them, but guests might happen)
- Bookshelves (empty currently, but hopeful)
- A desk (for Percy's homework and Mera's research)
- Various lamps (because the overhead lighting was aggressively fluorescent and made everything look like an interrogation room)
- Curtains (blessed, privacy-providing curtains that meant neighbors couldn't watch them figure out adult life)
By the time the delivery people left—generously tipped with money from Batman's stipend because Percy felt guilty about the stairs—their apartment had transformed from "abandoned space with two people camping in it" to "actual living space where humans might reasonably exist."
"It's a home," Mera said, looking around with something like wonder. "We have a home."
"We have furniture in a space we're renting," Percy corrected, but he was smiling. "But yeah. It feels like home."
They spent the rest of the afternoon arranging and rearranging—Mera had strong opinions about feng shui that she'd learned from a book she'd found in Atlantis's library, Percy had equally strong opinions about keeping sight lines to the door clear (Tartarus habits died hard).
Eventually they compromised: furniture positioned for both positive energy flow and tactical awareness, which was possibly the most "them" solution possible.
Percy's phone buzzed again.
**Batman:** Coast City University has confirmed your enrollment. Classes begin Monday. Your schedule has been optimized for maximum skill development while allowing League availability.
**Percy:** Optimized how?
**Batman:** Marine biology core curriculum, oceanography, chemistry. Two morning classes Monday/Wednesday/Friday, one afternoon class Tuesday/Thursday. No Friday afternoon obligations. Leaves time for training and mission response.
**Percy:** You planned my entire college schedule.
**Batman:** Someone had to. You would have chosen classes based on convenience rather than strategic skill development.
**Percy:** That's—actually probably true.
**Batman:** I'm aware. Check your student email for detailed course syllabi, professor assessments, and recommended study approaches. I've also identified three study groups you should join.
**Percy:** You identified study groups???
**Batman:** Social integration is important for maintaining cover and developing surface world relationships. The groups I've selected have strong academic performance and no concerning background flags.
**Percy:** This is the most invasive help I've ever received.
**Batman:** You're welcome.
Percy showed the messages to Mera, who'd been unpacking kitchen supplies (they owned plates now! And actual silverware! Adult life was strange).
"He's planned your entire academic career," Mera said, reading through the forwarded syllabi. "This is extremely thorough. Also slightly concerning. Does he do this for all League members?"
"I think Batman has contingency plans that include contingency plans that include contingency plans for backup contingencies. College scheduling probably relaxes him."
"That's a deeply weird relationship with organization."
"Everything about Batman is deeply weird. We're just learning to work within the weird."
They ordered pizza for dinner—another adult life skill successfully achieved—and ate sitting on their new couch, watching Coast City's lights come on outside their window.
"Classes start in five days," Percy said quietly. "I'm going to be a college student. An actual college student attending actual classes and doing actual homework."
"Are you nervous?"
"Terrified. I haven't been in school in—" He stopped, calculating. "—over a century. Technically. Sort of. Time is weird."
"You'll be fine. You're intelligent, you're capable, and you have academic accommodations for your learning differences." Mera finished her pizza slice and curled into his side, comfortable and familiar. "Plus, marine biology? Percy, you can *talk to fish*. You're going to excel purely through unfair advantages."
"That feels like cheating."
"It's not cheating. It's having relevant expertise." She poked his side gently. "Besides, you deserve some advantages. You've earned them through trauma and suffering. Let yourself have easy things occasionally."
Percy thought about that. About earning ease through suffering. About whether cosmic balance worked that way, whether surviving hell meant you'd paid enough dues to deserve peace.
He didn't know.
But sitting on their new couch in their small apartment with Mera tucked against his side—this felt like peace. Or the beginning of peace. Or at least peace-adjacent.
---
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