The thing about training grounds—and Percy had seen enough of them across enough worlds to have developed opinions—was that they all shared the same fundamental energy: barely contained violence wrapped in the pretense of discipline.
Atlantis's training grounds were no exception.
They occupied a massive section of the military quarter, carved from living rock and reinforced with metals Percy didn't recognize. The space was open to the water but contained, circular, with observation platforms rising in tiers around the central arena. Weapon racks lined the walls—tridents, spears, swords, and implements Percy had no names for, all gleaming with obvious enchantments and probable lethality.
Currently, those racks were being pointedly ignored by Prince Orm, who stood in the center of the arena holding his trident with the casual confidence of someone who'd been training since before they could walk.
"You're late," Orm observed as Percy descended to the arena floor.
"I wasn't aware we had a scheduled appointment."
"We didn't. I sent a messenger an hour ago. You didn't receive the message?"
"I was—" Percy paused, trying to remember where he'd been. Right. Tethys's courtyard. Drinking glowing tea and having an existential crisis. Very productive morning. "—elsewhere. Processing things. Elderly wisdom and beverage consumption."
"How enlightening." Orm's expression suggested he found nothing about this enlightening. "I'm challenging you to a spar."
"Why?"
"Because I need to see what you can actually do. Not parlor tricks with fountains. Not pretty water sculptures. *Fighting*. Real fighting. The kind that tests whether you're genuinely dangerous or just dramatically troubled."
Percy studied him for a moment—the tense shoulders, the calculating gaze, the way Orm held his weapon like it was an extension of his arm rather than a separate tool.
"You want to know if you can beat me," Percy said. "If it comes to that. If I turn out to be a threat. You want to know if you're strong enough to stop me."
"Yes." No hesitation. No embarrassment about the admission. "I want to know if I can protect my city from you. If necessary. It's a reasonable concern given your demonstrated power and concerning lack of proper allegiance."
"That's—actually very reasonable." Percy moved to the weapon racks, examining the options. Swords of various lengths, all well-made, all probably worth more than small countries. "I appreciate the honesty. Most people would dress it up in diplomatic language. Pretend it was about cultural exchange or training partnership."
"I don't believe in dishonest violence. If I'm going to try to hurt you, you should know exactly why."
"That's refreshing. Disturbing, but refreshing." Percy's hand hovered over a particularly nice blade—balanced, sharp, with runes etched along its length that pulsed with faint blue light.
But he didn't take it.
Instead, he reached inward, toward the place where his armor rested. Dormant but never truly asleep. Waiting.
"I don't use regular weapons anymore," Percy said quietly. "Haven't for—a long time. Too fragile. Too mundane. I broke too many of them in Tartarus. Broke my favorite sword so many times I lost count."
"Then what do you use?"
Percy's hand moved to his chest, to where the crystal pendant rested against his skin. He closed his eyes, concentrated, and *reached*.
The armor responded immediately—eagerly, like it had been waiting for permission to manifest. But Percy didn't call the full set. Just pieces. Just what he needed.
Shadows coalesced around his hands, liquid and solid at once, and when they cleared, Percy stood holding two weapons that made Orm take an involuntary step backward.
They looked like swords. Sort of. In the way that wolves looked sort of like dogs—technically accurate but fundamentally wrong, because these weren't tools of civilized warfare. These were survival made manifest. Death given form.
The blades were black—not painted black, not dyed, but *essentially* black, as if they'd been forged from the absence of light itself. Both curved slightly, single-edged, maybe three feet long, with grips wrapped in something that looked like leather but moved slightly, as if breathing.
But it was the *texture* that made them disturbing.
Scales.
The blades were covered in overlapping scales—tiny, perfect, each one from a different monster. Percy could identify most of them by touch alone. Empousai here. Drakon there. Hellhound along the spine. Chimera, manticore, Nemean Lion offspring, things that didn't have names in any language spoken by living creatures.
Each scale carried a death. A memory. A moment when Percy had chosen survival over mercy.
And woven between the scales—barely visible unless you looked closely—were threads of shadow that pulsed with a sickly not-light. Nyx's magic, corrupted and repurposed, holding the blades together in defiance of natural law.
"What are those?" Orm asked, his voice carefully controlled but edged with something that might have been concern.
"Remnants," Percy said simply. He spun the blades once—a casual flourish, testing weight and balance. They moved like extensions of his will rather than separate objects. Perfect. Terrible. "Everything I killed in Tartarus that had something worth taking, I took. The armor uses most of it. These blades are what's left. The pieces that wanted to keep being weapons."
"They look—wrong. Fundamentally wrong."
"They are. But they're mine. And they don't break." Percy met Orm's eyes directly. "Still want to spar? Because I should warn you—I've forgotten how to fight without intent to kill. I'll try to pull my strikes. I'll try very hard. But I've spent a century where holding back meant dying. That's a hard habit to break."
Orm's jaw tightened. For a moment—just a moment—Percy saw fear flicker across his face. Not fear of death, but fear of what Percy represented. What he'd become. What he might do.
Then Orm's expression hardened into resolve.
"I still want to spar," he said firmly. "Because if I'm afraid to face you in controlled conditions, I have no business claiming I can protect Atlantis. No business calling myself a warrior. No business being a prince."
"That's—" Percy paused, surprised. "That's actually quite brave."
"It's actually quite stupid. But royal training involves a lot of calculated stupidity." Orm shifted into a ready stance, trident held precisely, every line of his body screaming *trained fighter*. "First blood or yield?"
"Yield. I don't want to actually hurt you."
"How considerate. I'll try to extend the same courtesy." Orm's lips quirked into something that almost resembled a smile. "But I'm also going to try to win. Fair warning."
"I'd be disappointed if you didn't."
They faced each other across the arena—prince and demigod, Atlantean and Greek, two people from different worlds about to do the universal language of hitting each other with metal objects until someone admitted defeat.
Percy felt his combat instincts wake up fully for the first time since leaving Tartarus. That cold, calculating part of his brain that catalogued threats, calculated trajectories, predicted movements before they happened. The part of him that had kept him alive through a century of hell.
The part that was very, very dangerous.
"Ready?" Orm called.
"Not remotely. But let's go anyway."
Orm attacked.
Fast—gods, he was *fast*, moving through water like it wasn't even there, trident extended in a thrust that would've skewered Percy if he'd been standing still.
But Percy wasn't standing still.
He flowed sideways—not quite dodging, more like becoming briefly absent from that particular space—and brought his left blade up in a deflecting arc that redirected Orm's trident past his shoulder with a screech of metal on scales.
Orm recovered instantly, spinning, using his momentum to bring the trident around in a sweeping strike that forced Percy to duck, roll, come up with both blades crossed in a defensive X.
"You move wrong," Orm said, circling. "Like water and shadow mixed. Like you're not quite solid. That's disturbing."
"I get that a lot."
They engaged again—faster now, both of them testing, probing, learning each other's rhythms. Orm fought with precision and discipline, every strike calculated, every movement efficient. Textbook perfect. Exactly what you'd expect from someone who'd trained under the best masters Atlantis could provide.
Percy fought like chaos trying to remember choreography.
His movements were fluid but unpredictable—sometimes fast enough to blur, sometimes slow and deliberate, switching between styles mid-strike in ways that shouldn't work but did. He used both blades independently but in harmony, creating patterns that Orm couldn't predict because they followed instinct rather than training.
Survival fighting. The kind learned through experience rather than instruction. The kind that kept you alive when nothing else would.
"You have no form," Orm observed, breathing harder now, sweat beginning to show despite the cool water. "No consistent technique. You fight like—like—"
"Like someone who learned by doing it wrong until it worked?" Percy deflected another thrust, let his blade slide down the trident's shaft, forced Orm to disengage or risk losing fingers. "Because that's exactly what I am. I had good training once. Formal training. But Tartarus didn't care about form. It cared about effectiveness."
"It shows."
They separated, circling again, both reassessing.
Percy could feel his body remembering combat on a cellular level. The way his muscles anticipated movements before his brain registered them. The way his breathing synchronized with his strikes. The way everything else—past, future, identity, trauma—faded into the background, leaving only the immediate present.
Fight. Survive. Win.
It felt disturbingly comfortable.
"Again," Orm said, and charged.
This time they met in the center—trident against dual blades, water churning around them from the force of impacts. Orm was strong, skilled, fighting with the confidence of someone who'd won countless sparring matches.
But Percy had fought for his life. Daily. Against things far more dangerous than skilled warriors.
He started pressing the attack.
Not aggressively—he was still trying to be careful, still pulling strikes—but persistently. Forcing Orm backward, making him defend, disrupting his rhythm. Percy's blades moved in patterns that looked random but weren't—feints leading to actual strikes, strikes that were actually feints, misdirection layered on misdirection.
"You're—" Orm blocked, parried, retreated another step. "—you're holding back."
"Yes."
"Stop."
Percy hesitated mid-strike. "What?"
"I said stop holding back." Orm's eyes blazed with something fierce—not anger, but pride, determination, the refusal to be coddled. "I'm not fragile. I'm not some child who needs protection. If you're going to fight me, actually *fight* me. Or this is pointless."
"Orm, I've spent a century killing things that gods fear. If I stop holding back—"
"Then I'll lose quickly instead of slowly. At least it'll be honest." Orm shifted his stance—more aggressive now, more open, inviting attack. "Come on, son of Poseidon. Show me what Tartarus made you. Show me what I'm actually dealing with."
Percy looked at him—really looked—and saw something familiar in Orm's expression. The same desperate need to *know* that Percy had felt countless times. The need to understand exactly how outmatched you were. To face the truth rather than live in comfortable ignorance.
"Okay," Percy said quietly. "Okay. But remember—you asked for this."
He stopped pulling his strikes.
The difference was immediate and devastating.
Percy moved like water given predatory intent, his blades flowing through Orm's defenses with the inevitability of tide. He wasn't faster, exactly—though he was fast—but more *present*, more *there*, occupying space with the authority of someone who'd earned the right to take it.
Orm tried to keep up—gods, he tried—but Percy had spent a century fighting things that were faster, stronger, more deadly than any Atlantean warrior. His combat instincts operated on a level that training couldn't reach. Couldn't teach.
Could only acquire through surviving the unsurvivable.
Percy's left blade caught the trident, twisted, used Orm's own strength against him to force the weapon wide. His right blade came up—would've been a killing stroke if Percy had let it continue, a cut across the throat so fast Orm wouldn't have seen it coming.
But Percy stopped the blade a hair's breadth from Orm's neck.
Held it there.
Let Orm feel how close death was.
"Yield," Percy said softly. Not a question. Not a demand. Just a statement of reality.
Orm's chest heaved. His eyes were wide—not with fear, but with understanding. With the sudden, visceral comprehension of exactly how dangerous Percy actually was.
"I yield," he said.
Percy stepped back immediately, lowering his blades. "Are you okay?"
"Physically? Yes. Egotistically?" Orm laughed—sharp and slightly hysterical. "Thoroughly destroyed. Gods. *Gods*. You weren't even—that wasn't you at full capacity, was it?"
"No. If I'd been going full capacity, we wouldn't have made it this far into the fight."
"That's not reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be. It was meant to be honest." Percy dismissed his blades—they dissolved into shadow and flowed back into the crystal, satisfied with their brief manifestation. "You're good, Orm. Really good. In a fair fight against almost any warrior in existence, you'd probably win. But I haven't had a fair fight in a century. I've only had survival. And that changes things."
Orm was quiet for a long moment, processing. Then: "You could have killed me at any point during that fight."
"Yes."
"Multiple times. Dozens of times, probably."
"Yes."
"Why didn't you?"
Percy looked at him—really looked—and saw not an enemy or an obstacle, but someone trying desperately to protect what they loved. Someone carrying responsibilities that weighed more than armor. Someone who'd challenged death itself out of duty and courage rather than stupidity.
Someone a lot like Percy used to be.
"Because you're not my enemy," Percy said simply. "You're someone protecting their home. Their family. Their people. And I respect that. Understand it. I've done the same thing. Will probably do it again." He smiled slightly. "Besides, your mother would be very disappointed if I killed you. And she's been kind to me. I don't want to make her sad."
Despite everything—the tension, the fear, the brutal reality of their power differential—Orm laughed.
"You're concerned about my mother's feelings?"
"Your mother looks like she gives *very* effective disappointed looks. I've survived Tartarus but I don't think I could survive disappointing her."
"That's—" Orm shook his head, still laughing slightly, the tension bleeding out of him like water from a cracked vessel. "That's actually very perceptive. Mother's disappointment is more devastating than most weapons."
"I recognize the type. My mom had the same gift. Could make you feel worse than any punishment with just a look."
"Had?" Orm's expression softened. "Past tense?"
"I don't know if she's alive in this world. In this dimension. I don't know if she exists here at all, or if she does, whether she remembers a son she might not have had in this reality." Percy's voice went quiet. "That's one of the harder parts. Not knowing. Wondering if somewhere out there is a woman who looks like my mother but doesn't know me. Has never known me. Will never know me."
Orm was silent for a moment. Then: "I'm sorry. That's—I can't imagine. Not knowing whether your mother exists. Whether your family—" He stopped. Started again. "My mother is everything to me. My anchor. My moral compass. The one person whose opinion matters more than anything else. If I lost that—if I didn't know whether she existed—"
"You'd keep going anyway," Percy finished. "Because that's what we do. We survive. We push forward. We carry the weight because putting it down isn't an option."
"Yes." Orm straightened, and something in his expression had shifted—not to friendship, exactly, but to mutual respect. Understanding. The kind that came from recognizing yourself in someone else's struggle. "Percy Jackson, I'm not going to apologize for being suspicious of you. For watching you. For considering you a potential threat."
"I wouldn't respect you if you did."
"But I am going to acknowledge—you're not what I expected. You're more dangerous, yes. But also more—" He paused, searching for words. "—more *human*. More capable of choosing restraint. More aware of your own capacity for harm and more careful because of it. That's—that matters."
"Thank you. I think."
"It was a compliment. I'm not good at those. They come out weird." Orm offered his hand—formal, ceremonial, the Atlantean version of a handshake. "You have my respect, son of Poseidon. And my trust. Conditional, monitored, probably-going-to-be-revoked-if-you-do-anything-suspicious trust, but trust nonetheless."
Percy took his hand. Shook it. Felt the firm grip of a warrior acknowledging another warrior.
"I'll try not to betray that trust," Percy said. "Though given my track record with trust and responsibility, I'm not making promises I can't keep."
"Honest. I appreciate honest." Orm released his hand and turned toward the arena exit. "Mother's hosting a council meeting this afternoon. Foreign dignitaries. Diplomatic nonsense. She asked me to extend an invitation—you're welcome to attend if you want to see how Atlantean politics actually work. Which is to say, badly, but with excellent presentation."
"Will it be boring?"
"Extraordinarily boring. With occasional moments of excitement when someone says something insulting and has to be diplomatically prevented from starting a war."
"Sounds terrible. I'll be there."
"Excellent. Try to look less like death and more like a respectable guest." Orm paused at the exit. "And Percy? Thank you. For the spar. For the honesty. For not killing me when you clearly could have. It's—appreciated."
Then he was gone, leaving Percy alone in the training grounds with his thoughts and the rapidly fading adrenaline of combat.
Percy stood there for a while, processing what had just happened. The fight itself—how easily he'd dominated, how instinctive the violence had been, how *comfortable* it felt to be fighting again. That was concerning. That was something he'd need to examine. Later. When examining things didn't feel so exhausting.
But also—the conversation after. The mutual respect. The acknowledgment of shared struggle.
That was—new. Good. Different.
"You're getting better at the whole 'not immediately making enemies' thing," a voice observed from the observation tiers.
Percy looked up to find Mera watching from above, her expression amused and impressed in equal measure.
"How long have you been there?" he called up.
"Long enough to see you absolutely destroy Orm's confidence and then rebuild it through the power of maternal respect and emotional honesty. Very compelling." She descended to the arena floor with the fluid grace that suggested she'd been swimming through these spaces her entire life. "Also very hot, if I'm being honest. The fighting part. The nearly killing someone part. The casual display of overwhelming competence."
"That's a concerning thing to find attractive."
"I'm a concerning person. We've established this." Mera circled him, assessing. "You moved differently during the fight. Less human. More—predator. It was impressive. Also slightly terrifying. But mostly impressive."
"I was trying to hold back."
"I noticed. That was you *holding back*. Which raises questions about what you're like when you're not holding back. Questions I'm both curious about and smart enough not to ask directly."
"Smart. I appreciate smart."
"I know. That's why we're friends. Well, friends who are probably going to kiss at some point if I have anything to say about it, but friends nonetheless." She said it casually, like commenting on the weather or architectural features, but Percy caught the slight flush on her cheeks. "Too forward? I'm told I'm too forward."
"No, I just—" Percy stopped, trying to process that statement while his brain was still recovering from combat mode. "You're very direct."
"Life's short. Or possibly very long if you're someone like me with centuries ahead. Either way, spending it dancing around attraction seems inefficient." Mera stepped closer, close enough that Percy could see the exact shade of her eyes—green like deep water in sunlight, complex and shifting. "Do you find me attractive?"
"I—yes? Obviously yes? You're—" Percy gestured vaguely at all of her. "—you're objectively attractive. Subjectively also attractive. From multiple angles and perspectives. Very attractive. This is not a mystery."
"Good. Because I find you attractive too. Traumatized and dangerous and occasionally concerning, but attractive." She smiled. "So we've established mutual attraction. Now the question is—what do we do about it?"
"I have no idea. I'm terrible at this. I've been terrible at this since I was twelve and it's only gotten worse with age and trauma." Percy ran a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture he'd developed sometime in the last century. "Also, I'm—I was—I'm not over—"
"Annabeth," Mera supplied gently. "The girl from your dream. The one you loved and lost. I'm not asking you to be over her, Percy. I'm not asking you to forget her or replace her or pretend she didn't matter. I'm just asking if there's room for something new. Something different. Something that doesn't erase the past but exists alongside it."
Percy was quiet for a long moment, feeling the weight of that question. The impossibility of it. The possibility of it.
"I don't know," he admitted finally. "I don't know if I have room. If I'm ready. If I'm capable of—" He gestured helplessly. "—of being something other than broken."
"Here's the thing about broken," Mera said softly. "Broken doesn't mean ended. Broken means changed. And changed things can still be beautiful. Can still function. Can still love and be loved, just differently than before."
"When did you become a philosopher?"
"I've always been a philosopher. You just weren't paying attention." She reached up and touched his face—gentle, tentative, giving him every opportunity to pull away. "I'm not asking for commitment. I'm not asking for promises. I'm not asking for anything except—maybe let's spend time together. Keep being honest with each other. See where things go. If it goes nowhere, that's fine. If it goes somewhere, that's fine too. No pressure. No expectations. Just—possibility."
Percy leaned into her touch without meaning to—starved for gentle contact, for someone touching him without violence or fear, for human connection that didn't hurt.
"Possibility," he repeated. "I can work with possibility. Probably. Maybe. Possibly."
Mera laughed—bright and genuine and full of warmth that Percy felt in his chest like sunlight through water.
"That's very noncommittal commitment. I appreciate the consistency." She pulled her hand away, but gently, leaving the sensation of touch lingering. "Now come on. I need to make sure you don't show up to the council meeting looking like you've been fighting. Well, looking like you've been fighting *recently*. You always look a little like you've been fighting. It's part of your aesthetic."
"I have an aesthetic?"
"Absolutely. 'Traumatized but trying.' It's very compelling."
"That's the worst aesthetic."
"And yet it works for you. Mysterious." Mera linked her arm through his and started pulling him toward the exit. "Come on. We have hours before the council meeting. We can get you cleaned up, fed, and properly briefed on Atlantean political nonsense so you don't accidentally cause a diplomatic incident."
"I don't cause diplomatic incidents *accidentally*."
"That's what everyone says right before they accidentally cause a diplomatic incident."
They left the training grounds together—teasing, laughing, comfortable in a way that shouldn't have been possible given that they'd known each other for less than two days.
But Percy had learned that time was relative. That connections could form instantly or slowly or not at all, regardless of duration. That sometimes the people who understood you best were the ones who'd known you the shortest time, because they saw who you were now rather than who you'd been before.
Behind them, unnoticed, several Atlantean guards who'd been watching the spar from concealed positions began filing reports.
*The son of Poseidon is dangerous. Extremely dangerous. Potentially catastrophically dangerous. Recommend continued surveillance and contingency planning.*
*However—*
*He shows restraint. Awareness of his power. Capacity for mercy. Genuine effort to avoid causing harm.*
*Assessment: Threat level remains high, but hostile intent appears minimal.*
*Recommendation: Monitor but do not antagonize. Maintain current protocols. Brief all personnel on appropriate responses should the situation escalate.*
*Secondary note: Prince Orm appears to have developed respect for the subject. This is either very good or very bad. Time will tell.*
The reports were filed, processed, sent up the chain of command to people whose job was worrying about divine strangers and existential threats.
Percy remained blissfully unaware of all of this, too focused on Mera's running commentary about Atlantean political factions to notice he was being catalogued, analyzed, and cautiously integrated into the city's threat assessment matrices.
Which was probably for the best.
Some things were better discovered gradually rather than all at once.
---
## Meanwhile: The Watchtower
The Justice League's satellite headquarters hung in orbit like a vigilant eye, watching Earth with sensors that could detect everything from nuclear launches to interdimensional breaches.
Which is why, when something very divine and very powerful suddenly manifested on Earth, every alarm in the facility began screaming.
Batman stood at the main console, reviewing data with the focused intensity of someone whose hobby was being prepared for literally everything.
"Tell me," he said to the room at large—currently occupied by Superman, Wonder Woman, Flash, and a very concerned-looking Martian Manhunter.
"Divine energy signature," Superman said, reading from a secondary screen. "Massive surge detected approximately eighteen hours ago. Origin point appears to be somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean."
"How massive?"
"Comparable to Zeus's presence during the Olympian incident last year. Possibly stronger." Superman's expression was troubled. "But the signature's wrong. It's not pure divine energy. It's—mixed. Combined with something else. Something that reads as—" He paused, consulting his scanner. "—underworld magic? Death magic? The sensors are having trouble classifying it."
"Wonderful," Batman muttered. "Mixed divine energy is never good. It's either a
war between pantheons or something fundamentally unstable. Neither option is pleasant."
"Diana?" Batman turned to Wonder Woman. "Your assessment?"
Diana had been staring at the energy readings with an expression that mixed recognition and confusion. "I know this signature. And I don't know it. It's—like Poseidon's power, but wrong. Twisted. As if someone took ocean divinity and marinated it in Tartarus for several decades."
"That's disturbingly specific."
"The readings are disturbingly clear." Diana moved closer to the display, her warrior's instincts clearly unsettled. "This isn't just divine power manifesting. This is divine power that's been *changed*. Corrupted, possibly. Or adapted. The underworld components suggest prolonged exposure to death magic, necromantic energy, possibly even—"
She stopped, her eyes widening.
"What?" Batman asked sharply.
"The five rivers," Diana breathed. "I'm detecting traces of water from all five rivers of the Greek Underworld. Styx, Lethe, Acheron, Phlegethon, Cocytus. All combined in one source. That's—that should be impossible. That would kill anything mortal instantly. Even most gods couldn't survive exposure to all five rivers simultaneously."
"So either we're dealing with a god," Superman said slowly, "or something that's become godlike through extremely questionable means."
"Location?" Batman demanded.
"Tracking is difficult—the energy signature keeps fluctuating, as if it's being hidden or obscured. But the last clear reading placed it—" The computer processed. "—somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. Deep. Possibly underwater. Possibly—"
"Atlantis," Batman finished grimly. "Of course it's Atlantis. Why wouldn't it be Atlantis? Atlantis is always complicated."
"We should investigate," Wonder Woman said firmly. "Something this powerful manifesting on Earth—we need to know what it is. Where it came from. What its intentions are."
"Agreed," Batman said. "But carefully. If this presence is in Atlantis, we can't just barge in. That's Queen Atlanna's domain. We need permission. Cooperation. Diplomacy."
Flash groaned. "I hate diplomacy. Can't we just run in, figure out what's happening, and deal with it? That's faster."
"And more likely to start an international incident," Batman said dryly. "No. We do this properly. Diana, can you reach out to Atlanna? Establish contact? Request a meeting?"
"I can try. Atlanna and I have—cordial relations. She respects Themyscira. That should be enough for an introduction." Diana's expression was troubled. "But Batman—whatever this is, it's powerful. If it's hostile—"
"Then we deal with it. As we deal with all threats." Batman's voice was steady. Final. "But we gather information first. We understand what we're facing. We don't assume threat based solely on power readings."
"Even when those power readings are 'enough to make gods nervous'?" Superman asked.
"*Especially* then. The most dangerous assumption is that power equals hostility." Batman turned back to the console. "J'onn, can you get any psychic readings from this distance?"
The Martian Manhunter had been silent, his red eyes distant, clearly reaching out with his telepathic senses toward the Atlantic. Now he shook his head slowly.
"Nothing clear. The presence is—shielded. Not artificially, but naturally. As if surrounded by shadows that deflect mental contact." His voice was troubled. "But I sense—pain. Great pain. Loss. Trauma extending back years. Perhaps decades. Perhaps longer."
"So either a victim or someone very good at seeming like one," Batman said.
"Or both," J'onn suggested quietly. "Victims can become threats. Trauma can twist even the strongest minds. We should be cautious but not cruel."
Batman nodded. "Diana, make contact with Atlantis. Request a meeting with Atlanna. Explain that we've detected unusual divine energy and want to ensure it's not a threat to Earth's safety. Be diplomatic. Be respectful. But be *clear* that we take this seriously."
"Understood." Diana moved toward the communications station. "And if she refuses?"
"Then we respect her sovereignty and monitor from a distance. We don't escalate unnecessarily." Batman's expression was grim. "But we also don't ignore a potential threat. We gather information. We prepare contingencies. We do what we always do."
"Be paranoid and hope it's enough?" Flash suggested.
"Exactly."
Wonder Woman began composing her message to Atlantis, her diplomatic training kicking in even as her warrior's instincts remained on high alert.
Meanwhile, deep beneath the Atlantic, Percy Jackson sat in his quarters, completely unaware that Earth's greatest heroes had just noticed his existence and were currently trying to determine if he was a crisis requiring intervention or just another Tuesday.
Which, given his track record, could honestly go either way.
The universe, it seemed, had opinions about Percy's attempt at peaceful recovery.
And those opinions were rapidly becoming everyone else's problem.
---
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