The thing about space stations—and Percy was forming opinions about this in real-time as Mera gripped his arm with increasing intensity—was that they really shouldn't be possible. Not from an architectural standpoint, not from a "how-does-gravity-work-here" standpoint, and definitely not from a "why-are-we-in-space-when-we-belong-in-water" standpoint.
The Watchtower hung above Earth like a geometric middle finger to conventional physics—all gleaming metal and impossible angles, with windows that showed the planet below in blues and greens and swirls of white cloud that made Percy's chest ache with something complicated.
*That's home*, he thought. *Sort of. Maybe. Home-adjacent. Home if you squint and ignore the dimensional differences and the fact that my actual home is probably in a completely different reality.*
"This is fine," Mera said through gritted teeth. Her knuckles were white where she gripped his arm, and her eyes were fixed very determinedly on the wall rather than the windows showing infinite void. "This is absolutely fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine. Why wouldn't this be fine?"
"You're panicking," Percy observed.
"I'm not panicking. I'm experiencing reasonable concern about being in an environment fundamentally hostile to my existence. There's a difference."
"That's called panicking."
"That's called *healthy survival instinct*." Mera finally tore her gaze from the wall to glare at him. "We're hydrokinetics, Percy. Water manipulators. We belong in *oceans*, not—not *space*. Space is the opposite of ocean. Space is ocean's natural enemy. This is like asking fire elementals to vacation in swimming pools."
"The analogy needs work."
"My brain needs work. It's currently trying to process being surrounded by vacuum while also being surrounded by artificial atmosphere while also being weightless-but-not-weightless because artificial gravity is apparently a thing that exists here. It's very confused. I'm very confused. Everything is confusing."
Diana appeared from around a corner—somehow graceful even in zero-context, wearing casual Watchtower attire that suggested she spent enough time here to have comfortable clothes—and her expression shifted to concern when she saw Mera's death grip on Percy's arm.
"First time in space?" she asked gently.
"Is it that obvious?" Mera's laugh was slightly hysterical. "I'm normally very composed. Very confident. Very 'I've got this under control.' But apparently my composure has limits and those limits are 'being in a metal box floating in the void where there's no water for thousands of miles.'"
"It's disorienting," Diana agreed. "I remember my first time at the Watchtower. I spent twenty minutes staring at Earth trying to understand how something so beautiful could exist in something so hostile. It gets easier."
"When?"
"Eventually. Possibly. If you're lucky." Diana's smile was sympathetic but not pitying—the expression of someone who understood fear but wouldn't coddle it. "Come on. The others are waiting in the conference room. Try not to look at the windows if they're bothering you. Focus on the destination, not the journey."
"The destination is a room full of the world's most powerful heroes who are going to assess whether we're worthy of joining their team," Mera pointed out. "That's not exactly less stressful than the windows."
"Fair point." Diana started walking, clearly expecting them to follow. "But at least the heroes are friendly. The void is neutral at best."
Percy gently disentangled his arm from Mera's grip and instead took her hand—properly, deliberately, the kind of hand-holding that said *I'm here, you're not alone, we're doing this together whether it's terrifying or not*.
Mera's fingers tightened around his, and some of the tension bled from her shoulders.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Always."
They followed Diana through corridors that all looked identical—smooth metal walls, perfect lighting, the occasional window showing Earth in all its intimidating glory—until they reached a door marked CONFERENCE A in that efficient, no-nonsense way that suggested Batman's organizational influence.
The door slid open with a soft *hiss*, and Percy's combat instincts immediately catalogued everyone inside.
Superman stood near the windows—because of course he did, he probably loved the view—wearing his iconic suit and radiating the kind of casual power that came from knowing you could benchpress planets if properly motivated. He smiled when he saw them, warm and genuine, the expression of someone who actually meant his welcome.
Batman was seated at the head of the conference table—because of course he was—wearing his full cowl despite being in secure headquarters, which suggested either commitment to the aesthetic or paranoia so deep it had become structural. His white lenses fixed on Percy and Mera with the intensity of someone running approximately seventeen threat assessments simultaneously.
Flash stood near the table's opposite end, vibrating slightly—not from movement exactly, but like he existed fractionally out of sync with normal time and couldn't quite commit to one temporal position. He was younger than Percy expected, with an expression of barely contained enthusiasm that suggested either genuine friendliness or very good drugs.
Green Lantern floated near Superman—actually *floated*, suspended by what appeared to be green energy that formed into a chair-shape beneath him, because apparently sitting normally was optional when you had a cosmic power ring. He was studying Percy and Mera with open curiosity, professional assessment mixed with what might have been genuine interest.
Martian Manhunter stood in the corner—and Percy had to consciously stop himself from flinching, because the Martian was *reading him*. Not obviously, not invasively, but Percy could feel the telepathic attention like pressure against his mental shields, gentle but persistent, asking permission to look deeper.
And Cyborg leaned against the wall near the door, half-man half-machine in ways that made Percy's brain hurt trying to determine where flesh ended and technology began. His optical implant glowed faintly as it scanned them—probably running their biometrics through every database in existence, because privacy was apparently optional in the hero business.
"Percy Jackson, Mera of Xebel," Diana said formally, gesturing to the gathered heroes. "Welcome to the Watchtower. You've met Superman and Batman. Allow me to introduce the others—"
"Flash, but you can call me Barry." The speedster zipped forward—literally blurred across the room—and offered his hand with a grin that suggested he'd never met a stranger, only friends he hadn't annoyed yet. "Welcome to the League! This is very exciting. We haven't had new members in—how long has it been?"
"Eighteen months," Cyborg supplied. "Since I joined. Though technically I'm still probationary too, so maybe we're all probationary together. Probation buddies."
"That's not a thing," Batman said flatly.
"It could be a thing. I'm making it a thing. Victor Stone, by the way." Cyborg pushed off from the wall and offered his hand—the human one, Percy noticed, which was probably deliberate courtesy. "Tech specialist, strategic support, occasional voice of reason when everyone else is being ridiculous."
"So never," Flash said cheerfully.
"So constantly," Cyborg corrected.
"John Stewart," Green Lantern said, descending from his floating position to offer a more traditional handshake. His grip was firm, professional, carrying the weight of military precision. "Green Lantern Corps representative. Former Marine. Current cosmic policeman. General keeper of order when order needs keeping."
"And I am J'onn J'onzz," the Martian said, his voice carrying harmonics that suggested communication happening on multiple levels simultaneously. "Though many call me Martian Manhunter. I am—" He paused, red eyes meeting Percy's directly. "—I am sorry. Your mental shields are very loud. Very present. You've been hurt telepathically before."
Percy's hand moved unconsciously to his temple—to old scars that didn't exist anymore, memories of things that had tried to break his mind open during his century in hell. "A few times. More than a few times. Lost count after the first dozen attempts."
"I will not intrude without permission," J'onn said gently. "But know that if you need telepathic support—shielding, mental healing, communication assistance—I am available. What was done to you was—" His expression flickered with something that might have been pain. "—was cruel. You have my sympathy."
"Thanks. I think." Percy wasn't sure how to respond to alien telepaths offering sympathy, so he defaulted to his standard awkward gratitude and hoped it landed appropriately.
"Sit, please," Superman said, gesturing to the conference table. "This doesn't need to be formal or stressful. We're just—talking. Getting to know you. Understanding what you can do and how we can work together."
"That sounds like an assessment," Mera observed, but she moved to the table anyway, Percy following. They took seats side by side—a unified front, deliberately close, making it clear they were a team within the potential team.
"It's a conversation that will inform assessment," Batman corrected. "Which is different. Slightly."
"How slightly?" Percy asked.
"Extremely slightly. Almost imperceptibly slightly." Batman leaned forward, his lenses reflecting light in a way that made it impossible to see his eyes, which was probably deliberate. "Percy Jackson. Mera of Xebel. Diana has provided her report on your capabilities and character. But we'd like to hear from you directly. Who you are. What you can do. Why you want to join the Justice League."
"I can start," Mera said, and Percy felt gratitude flood through him because public speaking was terrible and having someone else go first made it fractionally less terrible. "I'm a hydrokinetic. I manipulate water—all forms of it, all states, as long as it's H2O I can work with it. I've been training since childhood at the Xebel Conservatory, studying under the Masters, learning both theoretical applications and practical combat techniques. I'm—" She paused, choosing words carefully. "—I'm considered exceptionally talented. Prodigy, some say, though I think that's overstating things."
"It's not," Percy said quietly. "You're amazing."
Mera flushed slightly but continued. "I'm also stubborn, occasionally impulsive, and have strong opinions about proper hydrokinetic form that I will absolutely share whether requested or not. I want to join the League because—because I've spent my whole life learning to be powerful but never actually *doing* anything with that power. This is my chance to help people. To matter. To be more than just academic achievement and potential."
"That's a good reason," Superman said warmly. "One of the best reasons, actually. People who join because they genuinely want to help rather than because they want glory or power—those are the people who last. Who make real differences."
"Plus hydrokinesis is incredibly versatile," Cyborg added. "Crowd control, rescue operations, environmental manipulation—you'd fill a lot of strategic gaps we currently have. Assuming you're as good as you claim."
"I'm better," Mera said with absolute confidence.
"I like her," Flash announced. "She's got that healthy arrogance thing going. Very heroic."
"It's not arrogance if it's accurate," Mera countered.
"See? Delightful."
Batman's attention shifted to Percy with the weight of a tactical strike. "Percy Jackson."
Percy met his gaze—or tried to, the lenses made it impossible—and felt every instinct screaming at him to be *careful*, to treat this like the threat assessment it absolutely was, to remember that Batman was human but humans with enough preparation could be more dangerous than gods.
"I'm—" Percy started, then stopped. Started again. "I'm a son of Poseidon. Demigod. I have hydrokinetic abilities like Mera but they work differently—more instinctive, less refined, tied to my divine blood rather than trained technique. I can breathe underwater, communicate with sea creatures, create earthquakes if I'm in contact with water or earth, and I'm extremely difficult to kill when I'm near the ocean. My father's domain protects me. Heals me. Makes me stronger."
"And you survived Tartarus for a century," Batman said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"Doing what?"
"Killing things that tried to kill me first. Adapting. Learning to survive on minimal resources. Becoming—" Percy's jaw tightened. "—becoming something I didn't want to become because the alternative was death."
"You carry underworld magic," J'onn observed quietly. "I can sense it. Clinging to you like oil. Staining your aura. It causes you pain."
"It's manageable."
"That's not the same as 'it doesn't hurt.'"
"No. But I've lived with it for a century. I know how to function despite the pain." Percy's hand moved to his chest, to where the crystal rested beneath his shirt. "I'm not going to pretend I'm not damaged. Not going to claim I'm some perfect hero candidate. I'm traumatized and dangerous and I have power that makes people nervous. But I'm *trying*. Trying to heal. Trying to be something other than just survival instincts in a humanoid shape. That's why I want to join. Because Diana's right—I need purpose. Direction. A reason to wake up that isn't just 'didn't die today, good job.'"
Silence fell over the conference room.
Flash was the one who broke it: "Dude, that's the most honest 'why I want to join the League' speech I've ever heard. Usually people give us this whole spiel about justice and protecting the innocent and noble causes. You just straight-up admitted you're a disaster looking for structure."
"Is that bad?"
"It's *refreshing*. Self-awareness is rare in this business." Flash leaned forward, his eyes bright with genuine interest. "So you fight with water powers and—what else? You mentioned earthquakes. What's your combat style? How do you approach fights?"
Percy thought about how to explain a century of survival fighting in a way that didn't sound completely unhinged. "I fight like someone who learned by doing it wrong until it worked. I have formal training—camp training, classical Greek combat techniques—but Tartarus forced me to adapt. To improvise. To develop methods that kept me alive regardless of whether they were 'proper.'"
"Show us," Diana said from her position near the window. "Not in here—you'd destroy the conference room. But the Watchtower has training facilities. Full combat simulation rooms. Let's see what you can actually do when you're not holding back."
"That's—you want me to fight? Here? Now?"
"Eventually, yes. After Batman finishes his interrogation." Diana's smile was knowing. "Bruce, how many more questions do you have?"
"Seventy-three," Batman said without hesitation.
"Could you possibly narrow that down to the essential ones? The ones that can't wait until after we see them actually demonstrate their capabilities?"
Batman was silent for a moment—clearly running calculations, weighing information value against practical demonstration benefits—then nodded. "Acceptable. But I want full medical scans, psychological evaluations, and power assessments before either of you go on any missions."
"That's fair," Percy said. "Invasive and probably uncomfortable, but fair."
"I specialize in invasive and uncomfortable. It's how I keep people alive." Batman stood. "Diana, take them to Training Room Seven. The one with the reinforced everything. I'll monitor from the observation deck."
"You don't trust us not to accidentally destroy things," Mera observed.
"I don't trust *anyone* not to accidentally destroy things. It's not personal." Batman moved toward the exit with that silent, predatory grace that suggested either ninja training or deep psychological issues. Possibly both. "Superman, you're on standby in case containment becomes necessary. J'onn, I want telepathic monitoring to ensure there's no mental manipulation or compulsion. Flash, you're—"
"Also watching because this is going to be cool?" Flash suggested.
"—providing emergency extraction if either of them loses control," Batman finished. "Cyborg, systems monitoring. Green Lantern, barrier support if the structural reinforcement proves insufficient."
"You really are preparing for everything to go wrong," Percy said.
"Everything frequently does. Planning accordingly is just good policy." Batman paused at the door, his lenses fixed on Percy with unsettling intensity. "Percy Jackson—are you going to make me regret offering you League membership?"
"I hope not. But I've been disappointing authority figures my entire life, so no promises."
"That's—surprisingly honest."
"I'm very surprising. It's one of my few consistent qualities."
Something that might have been amusement flickered across Batman's expression—or maybe Percy was imagining it, it was hard to tell with the cowl—before he disappeared into the corridor, cape billowing with unnecessary drama.
"He likes you," Superman said, moving to follow Batman. "That could have gone much worse."
"How could that have gone worse?" Mera asked. "He treated us like bomb disposal candidates."
"He could have pulled out the kryptonite. Trust me, when Batman starts handling kryptonite during recruitment conversations, things have gone *very* wrong."
"That's—deeply concerning on multiple levels."
"Welcome to the Justice League," Flash said cheerfully, zipping past them toward the exit. "Where concerning is just Tuesday and deeply concerning is Friday. You'll love it. Or develop anxiety disorders. Possibly both."
They followed the League members through more identical corridors—Percy had given up trying to memorize the layout, the Watchtower seemed deliberately maze-like—until they reached a massive chamber that looked less like a training room and more like a military testing facility had a child with a weapons manufacturer and the result was raised by paranoid engineers.
The space was enormous—easily a hundred feet across, with walls that gleamed with some kind of advanced alloy Percy couldn't identify. The floor was segmented, clearly designed to reconfigure into different terrain types. Observation windows lined the upper level, already filling with League members taking position to watch.
"This is excessive," Mera muttered.
"This is Batman," Diana corrected, descending to the training floor. "Excessive is his normal. You'll get used to it."
"Will we though?"
"No. But you'll stop noticing after a while." Diana turned to face them, her expression shifting into warrior mode—still friendly, still Diana, but underlaid with the kind of focused intensity that came from millennia of combat experience. "Right. First things first. We need to establish what you can actually do. Powers, limitations, combat capabilities. Mera, you first. Show us your hydrokinesis."
Mera stepped forward, and Percy felt her confidence return now that they were talking about something she *knew*, something she'd spent her entire life mastering. She raised her hands, and—
Water materialized from nothing.
Not pulled from the air—though there was some of that—but *created*, manifested from hydrokinetic will made real. It swirled around her in elegant spirals, responding to her gestures like an extension of her body.
She shaped it into a sphere. Then a cube. Then something that looked like a geometric impossibility but existed anyway, all angles and flowing surfaces that shouldn't work but did. The water glowed faintly with bioluminescent energy—Mera's signature, the particular mark she'd developed during her training.
"Precision work," she said, her voice carrying that particular tone of someone demonstrating expertise they'd earned through years of practice. "Basic hydrokinetic control. I can manipulate existing water, create water from atmospheric moisture, and shape it into essentially any form I can visualize. Watch—"
The water compressed violently, becoming a spear of hyper-pressurized liquid that shot across the training room and punched through a training dummy with enough force to shatter the construct's torso.
"Offensive applications," Mera continued. "Cutting, piercing, bludgeoning—water can be soft or hard depending on pressure and velocity. I can create weapons, shields, even temporary constructs that hold specific shapes. I can also—"
She gestured again, and the water on the floor began to *freeze*, spreading outward in intricate crystalline patterns that looked like art as much as ice.
"—change water's state. Ice, steam, any form. As long as it's H2O, I can work with it."
"Range?" Cyborg called from the observation deck.
"Approximately fifty meters for fine control. A hundred for crude manipulation. Beyond that it gets difficult to maintain precision."
"Volume limits?"
"I've never found them. I once redirected an entire river during training. Nearly drowned half the Conservatory. The Masters were very displeased." Mera grinned at the memory. "But theoretically, if there's enough water present, I can manipulate it. The limitation is concentration, not capacity."
"Combat experience?" Batman's voice came through the speakers, disembodied and analytical.
"Limited. Formal training only—sparring, simulations, exercises. I've never been in an actual fight. Never had to use my abilities against a real opponent." Mera's expression flickered with something that might have been embarrassment. "I'm powerful but inexperienced. That's—that's something I need to develop."
"Honesty is good," Diana said. "Better to acknowledge limitations than pretend they don't exist. We can provide combat training. Help you develop tactical sense to match your raw power."
"I'd appreciate that."
"Percy," Diana said, turning her attention to him. "Your turn. Show us what you can do."
Percy stepped forward, and immediately felt the weight of every eye in the observation deck. Assessing. Cataloguing. Preparing contingencies in case he proved too dangerous.
*No pressure*, he thought. *Just demonstrate abilities developed through a century of survival horror while not accidentally destroying the billion-dollar training facility. Simple.*
He reached out to the water Mera had manifested—still present, still available, hovering in the air like a question waiting to be answered—and *took control*.
The water responded instantly, eagerly, like it had been waiting for him specifically. It surged toward him in a way that made Mera's elegant manipulation look gentle by comparison. This was water that recognized divine authority, that understood Percy was Poseidon's son and responded accordingly.
Percy shaped it into a massive wave—thirty feet high, curling like a tsunami in miniature—and held it suspended above the training floor. Not with careful gestures like Mera used. Just with *will*, with the innate connection to his father's domain that made hydrokinesis feel as natural as breathing.
"Raw power," he said, because explaining seemed important. "My control isn't as refined as Mera's. It's more—instinctive. Emotional. The water responds to what I want rather than what I consciously direct."
He let the wave crash down—but controlled, contained, spreading across the floor without causing damage despite the force behind it.
"I can create hurricanes if I'm near large bodies of water. Summon storms. The ocean listens to me because of my father's blood. But I can also—"
Percy called his armor.
Shadows exploded around him—not slowly, not gradually, but *instantly*, coalescing from nothing into the nightmare construction he'd worn in Tartarus. Scales manifested, each one telling a story of death. The cape billowed with animate darkness. The crystal in his chest pulsed with sickly light.
His dual blades materialized in his hands—black and wrong and covered in scales that made several heroes lean back instinctively.
"—I can do this," Percy finished. "My armor. My weapons. Made from everything I killed in Tartarus. It's part of me now. Part of what I became."
The observation deck was absolutely silent.
Then Flash's voice, awed: "Okay, that's the most metal thing I've ever seen. Dude, you look like you walked out of a horror movie about divine vengeance."
"That's accurate," Percy admitted.
"Can you fight in that?" Diana asked, and her voice carried professional interest rather than fear. "Really fight? Full combat capabilities?"
"Yes. Though I haven't—I've been holding back since arriving in this dimension. Trying not to scare people. Trying to be—" He gestured helplessly with his bladed hands. "—less this."
"Don't hold back now," Diana said firmly. She drew her own sword, shield materializing on her arm. "Let me see what you really are when you stop trying to be gentle."
"Diana, are you sure—"
"I fought you in Atlantis and barely got scratched. I can handle this. Show me full power, Perseus. Show everyone here what they're getting if they accept you into the League."
Percy looked up at the observation deck—at Batman's unreadable lenses, Superman's concerned expression, the other heroes watching with various levels of apprehension and curiosity.
*They need to know*, he realized. *They need to see the worst of me. Need to understand what I'm capable of so they can make an informed decision. No hiding. No minimizing. Just—truth.*
"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay. But Diana—I need you to promise me something."
"What?"
"If I go too far—if I start to lose control—stop me. However you need to. I won't—I won't be angry. Won't hold it against you. Just stop me before I hurt someone."
Diana's expression softened. "I promise. Now come on. Let's dance."
They faced each other across the training floor—demigod and demigod, warrior and warrior, two people who understood power and the burden it carried.
And then Percy stopped holding back.
He moved like water given form and shadow given purpose, his blades singing through the air with the particular sound that came from weapons that shouldn't exist. The armor enhanced everything—speed, strength, reflexes—until he was fighting at a level that made his spar with Orm look gentle by comparison.
Diana met him beat for beat, her divine strength matching his, her millennia of experience providing the skill to counter his brutal efficiency. They crashed together again and again, weapons screaming, the training floor cracking beneath the force of their impacts.
Percy used everything—hydrokinesis to create hazards, shadows to blind and disrupt, his blades flowing through forms that mixed classical training with Tartarus-developed survival techniques. He fought like someone who'd forgotten how to hold back, who'd learned that restraint meant death and followed that lesson for a hundred years.
And Diana *laughed*—fierce and joyous—clearly loving every second of finding someone who could challenge her without breaking.
They fought for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, pushing each other harder and harder, until—
Percy's blade stopped at Diana's throat.
Diana's sword stopped at Percy's heart.
Both of them breathing hard, both understanding that this was the line—the place where demonstration became danger, where sparring became something else.
"Yield," Percy said softly.
"Yield," Diana agreed.
They separated, weapons lowering, armor retracting—Percy dismissing his nightmare construction back into the crystal, returning to just himself, just a young man who'd fought too hard for too long.
The observation deck erupted into conversation—League members discussing what they'd just witnessed, arguing about threat levels and capabilities and whether this demonstration proved he was ready or proved he was too dangerous.
But Percy barely heard them.
Because he was looking at Mera, who'd watched the entire fight with an expression that mixed awe and concern and something else—something that looked like understanding. Like seeing him at his worst and not flinching. Not running. Just—accepting.
"That was terrifying," she said quietly, moving to his side.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. You warned us. Showed us exactly what you are when you stop pretending to be gentle." Mera's hand found his, squeezed gently. "Percy, you're *powerful*. Genuinely, frighteningly powerful. But you're also—you controlled it. Every strike was calculated. Every movement was precise. You didn't lose control once."
"I was trying very hard not to."
"It showed. That's what matters." She looked up at the observation deck, at the heroes still debating. "They're going to say yes. They have to. You're too valuable not to recruit. Too powerful to leave unsupervised. Too—"
"Too dangerous to ignore?" Percy suggested.
"Too *important* to waste," Mera corrected firmly. "Stop thinking of yourself as just a threat. You're a *person*. A powerful person who could help a lot of people if given the chance."
Batman's voice interrupted through the speakers: "Adequate demonstration. We've seen enough."
"Adequate?" Flash's voice, indignant. "Bruce, that was *insane*. That was two demigods trying to kill each other in the most aesthetically impressive way possible."
"We were pulling our strikes," Diana called up, still slightly breathless. "That was maybe sixty percent full power. Both of us."
"*Sixty percent*—you know what, I don't want to know. I'm just going to accept that demigods are terrifying and move on with my life."
Superman descended to the training floor, his expression thoughtful. "Percy, Mera—that was impressive. Genuinely impressive. You're both powerful, skilled, and more importantly, you demonstrated control even at high intensity. That's what we need in League members."
"So we're in?" Mera asked.
"Pending final evaluations and Batman's inevitable seventeen additional security checks, yes." Superman smiled. "Welcome to the Justice League. Provisionally. With conditions. But welcome."
"Conditions?" Percy asked warily.
"Standard probationary protocols," Batman's voice said through the speakers. "Six-month trial period. Supervised missions only. Regular psychological evaluations to ensure mental stability. Continued monitoring of power levels and potential threat escalation. Standard procedure for all new members."
"That's—actually very reasonable," Percy admitted.
"Don't sound so surprised. I'm capable of reason."
"Could've fooled me with the seventeen security checks."
"Those are also reasonable. Everything I do is reasonable. That's my brand."
"Your brand is paranoia disguised as preparation," Flash countered.
"Same thing."
Diana moved to Percy and Mera, pulling them into an embrace that was somehow both warrior-like and warm. "I'm proud of you. Both of you. You did well."
"We fought and scared people," Percy said.
"You demonstrated capabilities while maintaining control despite every instinct probably screaming at you to let loose completely. That's harder than it looks." Diana stepped back, her expression serious. "Percy, Mera—this is going to be difficult. The League is—we face threats that would break most people. Aliens, magic, cosmic entities, Tuesday. You're going to see things that bring back your trauma. You're going to be pushed to limits you thought you'd already reached. But—" She squeezed their shoulders. "—you won't face it alone. That's the point. That's what makes us League. We fight together. Fall together. Get back up together."
"That's—actually really comforting," Mera said quietly.
"Good. Because you're going to need that comfort when Batman starts his training regimen. It's—comprehensive."
"How comprehensive?"
"You'll find out. Painfully. Probably tomorrow."
They returned to the conference room—now with significantly more acceptance, significantly less suspicion—and Batman began outlining protocols, procedures, and approximately forty-seven rules that Percy stopped tracking after the first dozen.
But then Flash interrupted: "Wait. Before we get into the boring logistics stuff—do you guys have callsigns?"
Percy blinked. "Callsigns?"
"Yeah, you know—hero names. Titles. The thing we call you in the field so we're not shouting your actual names where villains can hear and track you down later." Flash gestured enthusiastically. "Like I'm Flash, not Barry Allen. Diana is Wonder Woman, not Princess Diana. Bruce is Batman, not—well, he's just Batman, I don't think he has a civilian identity anymore, it's concerning—"
"I'm not discussing my psychological relationship with my identity," Batman said flatly.
"—anyway, point is, you need callsigns. Code names. Something heroic and memorable that makes you sound cool when people are telling stories about how you saved the city."
Percy looked at Mera. "Did you think about this?"
"Not even slightly. I've been too busy panicking about being in space."
"Fair."
"I could be—" Mera paused, thinking. "—Torrent? That's water-related. Sounds powerful. Though maybe too aggressive? What about Current?"
"Too gentle," Cyborg said. "You punched through a training dummy with water. You need something that conveys power."
"Maelstrom?" Superman suggested.
"Too complicated to yell in combat," Flash said. "Needs to be one or two syllables maximum. You want something people can shout quickly when everything's on fire and someone needs backup."
"Cascade," Diana offered.
"Ooh, that's good," Mera said, testing it. "Cascade. Yes. I like that. It sounds—fluid but powerful. Elegant but dangerous. That's me. I'm Cascade."
"Excellent choice," Flash approved. "Percy?"
Percy had been quiet, thinking. About names and identities and what you called yourself when you were trying to be something new. About leaving behind who you were while still honoring where you came from.
About a sword.
A sword that had been with him since he was twelve. That had saved his life countless times. That had broken and reformed and broken again during his century in Tartarus until finally, permanently, it had shattered beyond any repair.
Riptide.
His trusty blade. His companion. His friend, in the way weapons became friends when they kept you alive long enough.
Gone now. Destroyed. Left behind in a hell dimension because even celestial bronze couldn't survive a century of what Percy had put it through.
"Riptide," Percy said quietly. "My callsign is Riptide."
---
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