Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

THE BEGINNING

It starts on a Tuesday.

Small, at first. Nothing big. Little oddities here and there. Shadows a little bigger than usual. People with teeth unusually sharp. Scales instead of skin. People don’t look too close at that. 

But then it becomes a little more. A figure in the dark. A beast with red eyes, prowling the alleys. A head peering up from beneath the surface of the water, inviting and enticing. 

Nobody reports it. What would they say? That they think they see a monster in the corner over there? Delusions. Fantasies. Stories. 

And then the first child gets taken. 

It starts on a Tuesday, and there is no end in sight.

***

ONE DAY AFTER 

The news report is innocent. One boy, twelve years old, missing for twenty-four hours. There’s an amber alert out on him. His hair is dark brown, and it falls over his eyes in the picture, eyes that are almost squinting with how hard he’s laughing. His birthday was two weeks ago. His mother is in tears. Cody goes to public school and not one of the teachers noticed his absence.

Then the second. Another boy, this one just turned thirteen. Long hair, piercing eyes. He stands in a museum and is next to his family, smiling as their photo is taken. He went missing on his way home from school. His name is Andrew; he goes to middle school in Denver. His friends report him getting into the car with a supposed friend of his parent’s. 

The third; a girl, eleven, of Asian descent. Her family does not know where she has gone, only that she is, and there is nothing to indicate a reason for unhappiness. Her room is untouched. Her eyes are bright blue. 

Number four, a boy barely older than six. Fred, who enjoyed drawing immensely and had a taste for crayons especially. His drawings are filled with black shadows and red eyes. 

Number five, number six, number seven. All the way up, to the tens. Then the hundreds. 

It doesn’t stop. 

***

FIVE DAYS AFTER

After six kids go missing in Metropolis, it’s only natural Superman start to investigate. He started at the first kid, of course. But now that the number’s multiplied, the emphasis is placed much more heavily. 

Metropolis doesn’t get these kind of cases often. Superman has the powers of a god and the soul of a human. He cares too much for the people to allow them to die. With powers like his, it’s not often that they do.

Whatever is happening, it is faster than a Kryptonite. It is able to weasel itself out of an iron grip. This hero has the strength of a thousand suns; he has held this city together with his own two hands, protected them from demons and aliens and humans alike. He is faster than a bullet. His skin is invulnerable. But even the greatest strength has no effect on something that cannot be touched. How do you restrain air?

For the first time, the people of Metropolis are afraid. 

***

ONE TO FOUR WEEKS AFTER

The cases start small, but they ramp up frequency quickly. What goes from one missing child in two weeks goes to three in seven days, and then practically one every two days. Children are disappearing, with what seems no common factor among them. 

Batman, the World’s Greatest Detective, struggles to do his job. 

The children are of varying ages. Most common seems to be around twelve or equivalent, but that seems to change as time passes. They begin getting younger. Older than thirteen is rare, but there are still a few cases. All of them are of different race, gender, age, and from different parts of the world. Majority from the US, but even in Asia and Australia, there’s been cases. Much less, but still cases. 

The children are from all over the place. It can’t be one person, because one person cannot take a child out of Washington, without anybody seeing, put them in whatever hideout they have, and then five minutes later pop up in Ohio and do the same. 

There is no motive, nothing to indicate when a child will be taken. There is nothing at any of the crime scenes. Only undisturbed dust where a child should be. It is frustrating. It is impossible. 

The only common link he can find is that they are children. That, and that many of them are from single parents. Not all, but many. But how does that fit in? How does any of this fit?

Bruce doesn’t put his head in his hands, but it is a near thing. The World’s Greatest Detective and the World’s Former Greatest Detective (now the World’s Second Greatest Detective, previously the World’s Greatest Detective during his stint as a man lost in time) are stumped. 

There must be something else. But there isn’t, and that is the worst part of all. 

***

From the staircase to the Cave, Damian watches his father and his brother puzzle over the case. He wants his family to come back to the Manor. He wants them, as much as he hates to admit it, just be with him. He feels protected with his family. They are capable. And against all odds, they love him. 

Damian is the youngest of his siblings. He could always be next.

***

THREE DAYS AFTER

Hal Jordan is on the way back from lunch when he spots a horse in an alley. 

He stops, stares, turns his head. That is a horse. A horse with a very nice coat, he adds in his head. It is very brown, but that mane is black as raven feathers. The horse also has no bridle, or saddle, and is simply standing in the middle of an alley. 

Admittedly, the horse is at least acting like a horse, which makes it less weird. Only by a little. It paws at the ground, huffs. Its horseshoes are gold. That makes it weirder. What kind of horse has gold horseshoes but its owner won’t keep track of it?

Hal approaches the horse carefully. As nice as the horse looks, he doesn’t think the police or citizens would take too kindly to it roaming the streets. 

“Hi,” he says to the horse, a hand outstretched. He barely yanks it back in time before the horse gets his fingers in its mouth. He feels the sound of the horse biting air. 

“Hi,” a voice answers him, and he jumps. No one in the alley, except—

Next to the dumpster, in the shadows, is a girl. Hal eyes the horse warily and skirts around him to peer at her. She is sitting down, her legs stretched out. She is wearing a very pretty shirt that is stained red. Her arms are also red. She gives him a weak smile and sends a stern look to the horse. 

“Arion. No biting.”

Arion whinnies. The girl wheezes out a laugh. The red on her shirt is growing steadily darker. 

“You, uh. Need a little help?”

“Maybe,” the girl says. Her face looks tired. “You gonna try and kill me?”

“Swear on your extremely pissy horse I won’t,” Hal promises. The girl laughs again and the horse neighs angrily, but doesn’t try to bite him. 

“Okay, sure.” She makes to get up. Hal stops her, getting a hand around her shoulders and under her knee instead. The horse whinnies again, aggravated, paces back and forth, but doesn’t stop him. “No hospitals,” she adds, once he’s got her nice and secure in his arms. He can feel her heartbeat. It’s way too slow for his liking. 

“Sure,” he agrees easily. “I’m guessing the horse wants to come?”

The horse neighs his assent.

***

THREE WEEKS AFTER

The first report of the monsters comes after three weeks of missing children. It comes from no less than three eyewitnesses of a humanoid thing snatching a child walking back home. All of them had frozen in fear. Only one woman had lunged for the kid. 

It happened in two seconds, max. The kid was gone, and so was the humanoid thing. It looked like a woman, but pale and unearthly, in the way that she didn’t look like she was from this earth. She looked like a ghost, one recounted. Dead. 

Two seconds should’ve been enough for Superman to get there. 

He didn’t.

***

ONE WEEK, TWO DAYS AFTER

“Father.”

Bruce doesn’t turn his chair. He feels close to—something. Not cracking the case. But maybe something. Something would be anything, at this point. 

“Pennyworth wants you upstairs,” his youngest son continues. Bruce grunts a little, and Damian pauses. He knows that grunt. That’s the grunt that says Bruce will be here all night if he needs to be. Alfred disapproves of this grunt immensely, but it is one of the few not even his family can draw him out of. 

After a few seconds, Bruce still feels Damian at his back. He turns his chair, slightly. “Something else, Damian?”

Damian is staring at the screen. It is of a young girl, yellow hair and wide smile. She was taken just yesterday. Local police had been on the scene. They had been ten minutes too late.

“...it is nothing,” his son says, soft. His expression is wistful. 

He leaves before Bruce can ask anything else.

***

THREE WEEKS, THREE DAYS AFTER

The reports of the monsters go up. So does the time Bruce spends in the Cave, and the time Superman stays out on the streets. 

Then a report of someone killing a monster comes in. 

Witnesses say that he wasn’t very old. A teenager, at most seventeen, at least thirteen. He was pretty tan, had brown hair, and a—

“Sorry, say that again,” the police officer requests.

“A really big hammer,” the witness acquiesces. “And—”

—that was on fire. 

Witnesses say that they didn’t see what else he was carrying on him, but they’re sure that he was wearing a neon orange t-shirt, and that his hammer was twice the size of his head, and he used it to turn the monster—this one apparently made of some sort of grain; yes, grain—into a very fine golden powder that had blown away by the time the witnesses got there. Similarly, so was the—not killer. Vigilante? The neon orange didn’t really scream that. But whatever or whoever he was, he certainly saved a lot of people. 

So far, it seems the monsters only go after children. This one, though, had gone after a woman in her late twenties. The hero and the woman had both disappeared. 

“Oh, and I don’t know if this is relevant, but the hammer looked kinda…brown? Like shiny brown.”

“…you also said the hammer was on fire, ma’am.”

“It was.”

***

FOUR DAYS AFTER

The horse will not fit in Hal’s apartment. 

The girl refuses to leave the horse, so Hal brings the horse up to his apartment via the balcony via the Green Lantern ring. The girl’s eyes widen when he uses the ring, which, makes sense, but Hal doesn’t really exist in government records (he does, but the words printed in his file spell out DECEASED in nice, big letters) so it’s fine. 

The horse, for its part, definitely freaks out. The girl manages to calm him down, though, and the horse does not make a mess of Hal’s apartment. 

Unfortunately, the blood does. The girl passes out halfway as Hal is stitching up her wound. This is not the first time he’s done stitches, nor the last, but he’s never been very good at them. Still, they hold up well enough. 

It’s just. 

There’s a lot of blood.

He looks at the girl; he doesn’t even know her name. Her eyes have closed, must have closed a while ago. She’s very still. Her face is paler than before. 

Arion nudges her hand and then neighs at him angrily. 

Hal works quicker. 

***

FOUR WEEKS, SIX DAYS AFTER

An alien threat appears four weeks after the first disappearance, the first (adult) sighting, and the first killing. This is, fortunately, totally unconnected to Earth’s problems. Superman easily subdues these threats, until he doesn’t. 

He hears Bruce bark his name, Diana and Arthur similarly yelling. The blast took him off guard, and his hearing was too sensitive when they set off the sound cannon, or whatever it is. His name on his teammate’s lips is the last thing he hears before a high-pitched whine, and then similar high-pitched ringing, this one from his own brain. 

After that, nothing. Weightlessness. 

Not the good kind, though, and he goes careening up and then down, down, down, somewhere near forest. 

He takes a moment to get recalibrated. Superman always gets back up. There’s a few more miles between him and the earth before he needs to do so, though, so he’s just gonna take a little break—

—ow. Owwwww. That hurts. Even with his invulnerability, he can still feel pain. He just doesn’t get hurt from it. Force is much more painful than simple bullets. Especially gravity. 

The ground wasn’t that close, though. In fact, the ground was extremely far away. So what did he hit?

He pushes off—nothing, actually. It’s invisible, like Diana’s jet, except not a jet and not Diana’s, and not made of anything a jet would be made of. It’s a barrier, like a dome, and it is hard enough that Clark can feel it in his jaw. 

From beneath the barrier, dozens—hundreds—of tiny people are looking up at him in neon orange shirts. Clark only has two seconds to consider this before his hearing is letting him know his team needs him, and he streaks his way across the sky to help them. 

It starts on a Tuesday. 

It doesn’t stop.

Chapter Text

THREE WEEKS, THREE DAYS AFTER

Jake Mason is having a shit day. 

Scratch that. He’s having a truly terrible, atrocious monstrosity of twenty-four hours. It feels like Zeus looked at him, laughed, and spit directly on his life threat. If a truck ran him over he would not be surprised. It’d just be his luck—demigod luck. 

The woman he’s with is panting as they run. The place they’re in is, for better or worse, a city. There are people, but not many. It’s on the fringes of the countryside, and there are many buildings that provide ample cover. The hard part is avoiding the security cameras, but Jake has accepted that won’t be totally possible. 

He woke up this morning feeling okay. He thought that he’d go get a coffee in his childhood cafe, go back to his house, see his mom and his little sister, and spend the rest of his weekend relaxing. 

Instead, on the way to the cafe, the bus he’s on breaks down, then he steps directly into a puddle of disgusting leftover rainwater, and the coffee shop is swarmed with people. He gets his coffee, which at least tastes good, and it is immediately knocked to his chest by a screaming person’s flailing arms. On top of all of that, he has to kill a karpoi. 

He hates karpoi. With a vengeance. Maybe it’s a Hephaestus-Demeter thing, but he fucking hates them. They look like cheap discount Halloween scare items, but about 99% more deadly. That little one percent is for the wussies who jump at every little movement. Also, their teeth are way too sharp for what should be harmless grain. 

He doesn’t have a lot of experience with them, but any kind of monster sucks. Jake sighs, opens his collapsible hammer, and pounds the thing into the street with a fury. 

When he stands, there are at least two cellphones out and pointing to him. There’s dread seeping into his veins the same way his coffee is seeping into his shirt. There’s burns on his skin and the coffee is cooling into an uncomfortable sticky mess, almost as uncomfortable as the feeling of being recorded. 

He grabs the woman’s arm and starts running. He doesn’t get her name. She’s way too old to be a demigod, though. Maybe a minor god, but even they get attacked before their sixteenth birthday, and she looks older than that. 

“What’s your name?” Jake asks when they get a breather. 

“Alex,” she says. “What the fuck was that.”

“Your first monster?”

“First time I’ve seen anything like that. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuckity fuck fuck—”

“Yeah, the first one always sucks,” Jake sympathises. “You don’t usually go so long without seeing one, though.”

“Those—things have always been here?” she says, her voice pitched up a notch. 

Jake nods, pulls her along. “They’re called monsters. They came after you because you have godly blood in your veins. Like me. Hi, I’m Jake.” He shakes her hand, then winces. “Okay, not that funny.”

“So where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe. Once they have your scent, it gets ten times more dangerous. You’ll learn how to be safe there.”

“I can’t come back? This is it?”

“Of course not.” Through another street, head low. “It’s not a prison. The whole point of it is to keep us alive long enough to live normal lives. Quite a shock, I know, but—”

“Dude, you just saved my fucking life. If those things are coming after me, I definitely want to be with you. How’re we getting there?”

Gods, that was easy. Jake wishes all of his extractions would be that easy. For a newbie, the girl seems surprisingly well-adjusted. He tells her so. She shrugs. “I was from Gotham.”

Jake, who has spent majority of his life in a Camp that rarely uses technology and doesn’t have a lot of contact with the outside world, just nods. “Good job. As for how we’re getting there, we’re travelling via Nick.”

Alex raises eyebrows. “Nick,” she repeats.

He pulls her into the last alley. Thankfully, the suitcase is still there, hidden behind the panel of loose bricks he used to take apart when he was bored and wanted to see how much of the building he could break before it fell apart. Alex looks unimpressed. He grins, kicks the suitcase, and it unfurls with a low hissing sound, and the rumbling and squeaking of hinges as it glows to life. Alex backs up a little. Jake strokes Nick’s neck and grabs onto his neck, swinging to a seated position and offering his hand to Alex. 

“Why is Nick just in a random alley.” She sounds close to fainting. 

“In case of a quick exit, duh.”

Alex climbs on, eyeing Nick. She yelps, clings onto Jake when they lift into the air. He wonders what the mortals think of the bronze dragon, decides he doesn’t care, and laughs. 

“Back home, Nick.” He pats his dragon’s head, and they start the journey to Camp.

***

FOUR DAYS AFTER 

It is very loud in the Big House, and not in a good way. 

It is packed to the brim with senior campers. This is no longer just a ‘counsellor’ thing; this is a demigod thing that concerns each and every one of them with a drop of ichor in their veins. Unfortunately, that also means putting a lot of Ares kids in the same space as everyone else, and while they’ll usually well controlled, tensions are high and it’s easier for them to fight than talk. 

That being said, one soft cough from Chiron is enough to stop Sherman from bashing Travis’ face in, and with a few grumbles and stern looks from their resident doctor who knows how to fix and subsequently break every bone in their body, as well as Annabeth, they go back to quiet. 

“Lou Ellen, say that one more time, I didn’t catch it over the noise,” Annabeth says tiredly, directing poisonous eyes to everyone else in the room. There’s the embarrassed shuffling of feet. 

Lou Ellen looks like shit. Her usually vibrant, glowing hair (literally, her hair glows) is dull, the purple almost faded to natural black. The bags under her eyes are obvious.  

“The Mist is down. Or at least, most of it.”

The uproar starts again and stops almost immediately, because Annabeth holds three fingers up, and that means three seconds before they start getting yelled at. 

“Explain what you mean by most,” she requests.

Lou Ellen shrugs. “I mean most. The really strong stuff, like Olympus and the entrances to the Underworld, they’re all still up. But they’re weak. The one around us, around the Romans, in general—that’s all…gone. Depowered. The threads are still there, but they can’t be used. It’s like someone snipped off the sides and pulled the whole thing free, now they can’t be woven back.” The noise almost starts again, but Lou Ellen keeps talking. “Anything that kept us hidden before is gone. The barrier on Camp is still up, but anyone can look in and see us. The monsters aren’t hidden anymore.”

“They’re getting desperate,” Connor says. “Didn’t you see—all those missing kids. I bet you my left kidney they’re demigods, or demigod-adjacent. Monsters can’t stay hidden anymore, so they’re just…going straight for the throat.”

“No one wants your left kidney,” Travis mutters, and Connor elbows him. Butch separates them before a fight can break out. 

“That just makes it more dangerous for us and every other demigod or legacy out there.”

“Stating the obvious.” Drew rolls her eyes. “The solution is obvious. Just don’t go outside the barrier.”

“And what about all of those new demigods that are being hunted? We can’t just leave them to die.”

The argument continues until Annabeth yells out. They snap to attention immediately, like soldiers to a general. 

Annabeth takes a breath. “Connor’s right, and so is Drew. It’s way too dangerous for anyone to go outside the border right now. But we’re not just gonna leave the other demigods to die, so here’s what we’re gonna do. Only senior campers get to leave, and they always go in threes, unless two people are capable. I’m leaving that decision up to the counsellors. The other kids do not go out the border for any reason. The woods are out of the question. There are probably monsters camped outside; I know the barrier is strong, but if your cabin is up to it, could you check, Lou?”

Lou Ellen nods, though she’s clearly exhausted. “We’ll try to come up with an alternative for the Mist, too.”

“If you can’t, it’s okay. We can’t do anything about that. We just have to…bear with it and hope the mortals don’t find it. Start restocking the armoury. Talk to the Romans and Amazons, see what they’re doing about this. Don’t go out looking for fights. Use the chariots. That clear?”

A few nods. 

“…what about the Justice League?” someone pipes up, and everyone zeroes in on Miranda. She hunches defensively. “I’m just saying. This hasn’t happened before. It’s…we could really use some help if we’re gonna try and save all of those kids. Plus, they’re supposed to be heroes, right? Isn’t saving people supposed to be their thing?”

There’s a moment of silence as they digest this, then everyone looks to Annabeth. Usually, everyone might start talking. But in this time, the unprecedented fear, this is the moment for their leader, the person they place their trust in to keep them alive. 

“Maybe,” Annabeth says finally, though her brow is furrowed in unhappiness. “If you have to, tell them. You’re right, they can help. But the Justice League is preoccupied with other kinds of threats. Alien threats. Mortal threats. And if we get involved with them…what kind of enemies do you think they have? How many more do we need?”

A few murmurs of agreement. 

“I’m not saying it’s unviable. If you really have no choice, you should tell them. But we should discuss with everyone first. Romans, Hunters, Amazons; even the magicians. It’s not just our secret.”

Miranda sits back, satisfied, her questions answered before they’re asked. 

“Contact everyone else. Start going with satyrs. Be safe, okay? Me and Percy will be there in a few days.”

The Iris message cuts out with a swipe of a hand. 

“…what the fuck is a Justice League?”

***

“Hey, Chase.”

“Jesus fuck, di Angelo. Are you good?”

“What?” 

Nico looks temporarily taken aback, like he isn’t the one standing in the shadows of Annabeth’s room in Percy’s house, when he has his own. That and the fact that he wasn’t here three seconds ago. 

“Are you dying?” Annabeth asks slowly. “Any limbs need to be cut off? Any dangerous bleeding?”

“…no?”

“Then why the fuck are you here at two in the godsdamned morning.”

“…it was 2pm when I left China.”

“Well it’s not two pm anymore.”

“…sorry.”

“What is it?” she snaps, then softens. She pats the bed next to her. 

“It’s Hazel.” 

There’s the worry. Amplified by ten. “What about her?”

“Went missing. Frank says she left about five days ago, got summoned by Hecate. Hasn’t come back. I’m going out to look for her.”

“Take your unicorn draught,” Annabeth orders. “Ambrosia, nectar, drachmas—”

“Yes, mom. Will already made sure I got everything. Just telling you.”

“Check in every three days, make sure you’re not dead,” Annabeth reminds him.

Nico nods. His skin is no longer that pale, but he’s still scrawny enough to nearly disappear into the corner as he sinks into the shadows. Annabeth watches him go with a bad feeling in her gut, partly related to their resident ghost, but mostly because of everything else. Including the Justice League. Especially Batman.

This isn’t going to end well.

***

ONE MONTH, THREE DAYS AFTER

“I am not messing with this shit,” is the first words out of John Constantine’s mouth, and it surprises everyone. Even Bruce, though he’ll never admit it. 

“Why not?” Clark asks, after a moment. He looks like a mixture of confused and also eager to help resolve the issue. Bruce gets it. There’s too many children disappearing.

Constantine snorts, reaches to light a cigarette and thinks better of it. Instead, he pulls out a deck of cards. “Ya kidding me, Big Blue? I ain’t getting myself involved in this. This is old magic. Much more powerful than the stuff I deal with.”

“You deal with demons and ghosts,” Diana cuts in. “How much older can these things be?”

“Much.” Constantine, the man who tricked the king of hell into curing his lung cancer. Constantine, who has outsmarted so many demons it’s impossible to tell who his soul will go to when he dies. Constantine, afraid. “Ya should know this, princess. It’s your ball field, anywho. This is millennia old magic. I can feel it. It feels like that lasso of yours.” Diana startles, touches her weapon. “I’m sticking to my shit. Sorry for the letdown, I’ll be—fucking hell, Batsy!”

“Locator spell,” Bruce rumbles. “At least that. Superman’s last location when in contact with this magic.”

Constantine scowls, rubbing his shoulder from where Bruce unsympathetically turned into a wall for him to slam into. “I told you, I’m not dealing with this shit,” he snaps. 

“Children are dying.”

Constantine grits his teeth.

“Fine, whatever. You’re covered in the stuff. I wouldn’t get your hopes up, these kind of spells aren’t usually location-based.”

Golden sparks shimmer. Clark holds perfectly stiff. It takes five minutes, and then Constantine starts rattling off coordinates. Bruce inputs them into his gauntlet. 

“Do not contact me for any more of this.” Constantine points a finger to Bruce, and then disappears into a portal. Bruce sends the location to a holo-screen. 

Delphi’s Strawberry Farm.

***

FOUR DAYS AFTER

By the time Hal gets everything cleaned up, it’s dark outside. The girl had tried to help; he had veto-ed that, along with Arion, who stamped his hoof. That seemed to be enough for her, and she laid back onto the couch with nothing more than a put-upon sigh. 

“I’m ordering pizza. Any preferences?”

“Pineapple,” the girl calls, and Hal makes a face. 

“Said no one ever, but okay.” He sends the order in for one hawaiian, two pepperoni. He doesn’t know if horses eat pizza, but he’ll find out. 

“It’s really not bad,” the girl protests as he sits down. “The sweetness of the pineapple perfectly balances the saltiness of the ham.”

“And why in the world would your pizza need to be sweet in the first place?” Hal shoots back. She’s dressed in the smallest clean set of clothes he could find, and they’re still dwarfing her. The Green Lantern hoodie is large on her torso, covering the old Led Zeppelin shirt, and she’d opted to keep the pants. Hal had tossed the shirt in the wash and hoped that the bloodstains would come out. Hopefully he hadn’t ruined a nice shirt. 

“Adventure, mostly.”

“Speaking of,” Hal says, “what kind of adventure were you on that got you that injury?”

A quirk of the lips. “Wow, straight to the heavy stuff. Not even gonna ask me my name?”

“What is your name?” Hal asks. Or, at least, tries to. His jaw gets stuck on the first consonant, and suddenly his body is frozen. He blinks, but his eyes don’t obey. 

“I know your name,” are the words that come out instead, low and sinister. It doesn’t sound like his voice, but it sounds exactly like his voice. His mouth moves with permission, the edge of the remote digging into his skin. “Hazel Levesque.”

There’s something in his brain. 

It feels like J’onn but nothing like J’onn. There is no warning, just forced entry. He can feel something other. Inhuman. It doesn’t poke around, thankfully, but it’s also controlling him, and definitely feels hostile to the person he just saved. 

Hazel’s expression changes to one of exhaustion and annoyance. She doesn’t seem that concerned. “Not you again.”

Hal tries to fight against whatever’s in his head, but there’s nothing to fight against. There is nothing he can hold onto. It’s not like an iron grip controlling his mind. It’s just a presence, intangible and horrible, stealing his words and arms. His lungs are breathing, but the oxygen is used by whatever is using him. 

“Yes, me,” he sneers. 

“Weren’t there more of you last time?” Hazel wonders. She shifts around on the couch, resting her hands over her wound. 

The thing snarls with Hal’s mouth. “There are much more this time, daughter of Pluto. You demigods stand no chance.”

“That’s what they always say.”

The thing roars, its rage taking Hal by surprise. Not Hazel, though, because she dodges his first lunge and twists him around, grabbing his wrists as he tries to thrash out of her grip. She manages to gather both his hands into one of hers—some part wonders how she’s so strong, she definitely doesn’t look that muscular, but she’s holding down a grown adult man fighting in a frenzy with nothing but her limbs—and reaches for something against her hip. 

“I really hope you’re a mortal, Hal,” Hazel mutters, and then a flash of gold is digging into his throat, and the presence evaporates with a single, haunting, scream. 

He goes lax immediately, and Hazel slides off the side of the couch to a sitting position, breathing hard. Hal reaches for his throat. Not a scratch, but the pain the thing felt was definitely real. 

They look at each other for a moment. The doorbell rings. 

“…pizza?”

“Please.”

***

ONE MONTH, ONE WEEK AFTER

Let it be known Bruce doesn’t like being carried anywhere. Bruce also does not like being flown in something that does not have walls and a floor. Bruce dislikes both of these things, and yet he is still in Superman’s arms, flying to Long Island, New York. 

“We’re not taking a jet to a secret society of people who might register us as a threat, B,” Clark admonishes, but Bruce thinks he just likes the thought of the high and mighty Batman being dangled like a toddler. He grunts in response, unwilling to concede anything. 

Diana muffles her laughter. At least Barry isn’t here to tease either, but he probably has a hundred photos by now. The red streak had disappeared in the distance about five seconds after takeoff. He’s probably casing the area, making sure there are no threats. At least, Bruce hopes. 

When they set down five minutes later, Bruce makes sure to dust himself off in full view of Clark. He scoffs, shaking his head good-naturedly. Barry is munching on something and leaning against a nearby tree. 

“So, what’s happening next?”

“They said a guide would be sent to meet us by the pine tree and allow us entry,” Bruce repeats. Barry is generally good at paying attention during briefings, but his memory is also short. It’s hard for a man who runs so fast he can have three times the hours in a day to remember everything. Bruce really needs to study Barry’s cells more—how does he handle time dilation? 

They don’t get much chance to converse after that, because a giant chariot is headed towards them. Diana pushes Bruce out of the way just in time to avoid two horses trampling him. They’re pulling a bronze chariot with a young man, woman, and a child. 

The horses neigh, and now Bruce registers that they have wings. Diana gasps softly. So, pegasi exist. That’s fine. The three in the chariot dismount. If they’ve noticed the colourful ensemble and one emo next to them, they don’t acknowledge anything. 

The child darts straight past them to the large pine tree about ten feet away. It’s astonishing speed. The other two take their time. The man gets to work unhooking the chariot from the pegasi, and the woman is picking up  something—or things—that clang noisily. The source of the noise is obvious once she stands; about four bronze spears are gathered in her arms. 

“Go inside,” the man says before the woman can start to speak. She scowls. The muscles on her back and arms ripple, but the man doesn’t stand down. “Take the chariot.”

She glowers for a moment, glances to them for a second. “But—”

“Now, Clarisse.”

Despite her protests, she doesn’t put up anymore of a fight. She holds the spears in one arm, grabs the chariot with another, and wheels it to the hill where the child has disappeared. The man is stroking the pegasi, whispering to them in low tones. He does this for another minute, offering both of them food, then they take off in a billow of air. The man seems unfazed even when his hair flies all over the place. 

“Who’re you?” he finally asks, addressing them. Clark steps forward, smiles gently. This is a mix of diplomatic Superman and kind-hearted Superman. 

“We’re the Justice League. We contacted you three days ago, were told to wait here for someone to let us in?”

The man studies them. Bruce doesn’t feel uncomfortable—he’s faced worse—but this is definitely the youngest person he’s ever seen so guarded. His shirt is neon, and also short-sleeved, and there are wicked scars he can see. Few, but large. 

“The heroes, right?” he finally says. Then his eyes narrow. He pushes Bruce to the side with surprising force—Bruce goes, partly stunned, partly indignant at being pushed around two times in ten minutes, and then also glad for the second time as a sword brushes past his face. Something howls, and then a shower of dust is rained down on his head. He blinks beneath the cowl. 

“Sorry,” the man says. He steps back, sword in hand, and presses something to the tip of the blade. It shrinks down into what looks like a pen and he puts it in his pocket. 

“What the fuck,” Barry mutters. 

“A hellhound,” Percy explains, unapologetically. “They’re pretty common now. C’mon, let’s go in before I get killed.”

They walk to the pine tree. Over the hill, they can see the sight Clark described to them; hundreds of figures milling around in orange shirts. Now there’s more detail; a climbing wall with lava running down the sides. An archery range with dozens of arrows being shot. Dummies being practised on by swords. There must be noise, but Bruce can’t hear anything. 

“I, Percy Jackson, give…what are your names?”

“Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, and the Flash,” Clark lists. He blinks, shakes his head. 

“Whatever, I’ve heard weirder. Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Flash, permission to enter Camp Half-Blood.”

All of a sudden, the valley comes alive. There’s clinking of metal, yells, shouts, screams. Bruce watches Clark startle from the sounds. He can hear the commands; they don’t sound English. 

“Hey, Perce—oh, you found them.” Another guy comes running up, this one pushing his glasses up his nose as he climbs the hill. He looks slightly apologetic. 

“Everything good?” Perce asks, and the other man nods. 

“Had a little spat between Cabins Four and Nine, but they’re fine now, Katie got them sorted out. Travis and Connor just reported back, they’re on their way. And the dryads have some news, apparently.”

Perce nods, and goes down the hill. The other guy straightens up and turns to them. It feels the same as Bruce turning from Brucie to Batman. He offers a hand. 

“Justice League. My name is Malcolm Pace.”

“Thank you for responding to us,” Clark says, shaking his hand. 

“We kind of need the help,” Malcolm admits. “I’ll give you the tour. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood.”

***

 There is a woman in the Manor. 

There is a woman in the Manor who Duke doesn’t know. There’s a possibility she could be one of Bruce’s friend’s, but she looks too young. She’s also rifling through his drawers, and the light around her is bending weirdly and Duke doesn’t know what to do. 

“Um.” Okay, that works. Her head whips up, eyes unnervingly locking onto him. “Hi?”

“Hello,” she responds. She does not immediately attack him. He takes this as a positive sign. She does immediately return to rummaging through his clothes. This is a less positive sign.

“What—are you doing in my underwear drawer?”

“Searching.”

“For what?”

She stands, closes the drawer. The only thing that saves it from the force is the fancy mechanism that slows it down so it doesn’t slam. “This.”

A dagger is seen in her hand. It is bronze. Duke has never seen that before, and his expression must say it. She smirks. 

“…who are you?”

“Annabeth,” she replies, pocketing the knife. Her hair is chopped short. There is a streak of grey that looks like Jason’s white. “And you?”

“Duke.” She looks him up and down appraisingly. 

“You’re a Wayne kid, right?”

Wow, that’s a complicated question. He coughs, turns it over in his head. Legally? Almost. Halfway there. He’s a ward. Emotionally? Half and half. Physically? All his stuff’s here. Familial? He has movie nights every week and is deeply entrenched in their…nightly activities. “Yeah, you could say that.”

An eyebrow raise, but she doesn’t push. “Where’s Damian?”

That has Duke on guard. Many people ask for Damian. Most of them are from the League of Assassins or Shadows, but they don’t usually ask so nicely. If she was a superpowered friend, she would have just kidnapped him. Damian doesn’t really do mortal friends, but they always go through Alfred first. 

Speaking of, how did Alfred not catch her?

“Not here,” Duke says slowly, trying to inject confidence into his voice. This confidence immediately crumbles as said child is absolutely here, and staring into the doorway. 

“…Chase?” Damian asks. He sounds…small. That’s not normal. Duke feels a strange protective urge towards the child who has expressed tendencies for murder. That is also not normal. This family has ruined his perception of normal. 

“We need to go,” Annabeth says. “Go get your bag and your weapons. Indefinite.”

Damian opens his mouth, eyes darting to Duke. Annabeth raises an eyebrow, full of challenge and warning. He snaps his jaw shut, and leaves. 

“You too,” Annabeth tells him, and it’s Duke’s turn to open his mouth. “What, you just gonna stand there? Pack whatever weapons you have, change of clothes, anything that’s of sentimental value. We’re leaving in two.”

Duke looks from Annabeth to the doorway his youngest family member was standing. If Damian trusts her, it should be fine. But like all Robins, Duke isn’t really into the habit of blindly following orders from someone he doesn’t know.

“Follow her instructions, Thomas.” Damian scowls from the doorway again, this time with a bag slung over his shoulder, two sword hilts sticking out from his back. 

He trusts Damian. Duke breathes, and goes to pack a bag.

***

Clark’s head is spinning, a little. Not in a physical way, because he’s Superman and he doesn’t really get concussions or any sort of head injuries. But a little because of the onslaught of noise here. And magic. The magic is definitely affecting him, but it’s not bad, so it’s probably fine. It’s just different. And a lot. 

He can almost see the magic. That’s weird. Probably not normal. But it’s also really cool, because everyone looks like a different colour. Malcolm and that big cabin with an owl over there are a nice, calm grey. They’re peaceful in comparison to the bright screaming orange of the cabin with the staff and the snake. 

The guy though, the first one, he feels violent. No, not violent. Volatile. Clark looks at him and gets confused because how can someone so small contain something so big. 

His head is spinning, and his heart is aching, because he’s listening to Malcolm talk about demigods and legacies and how Greek gods are real. They knew this because Diana was the daughter of one, but they didn’t know how many children they really had. Everyone here is part god and they call Superman a god but Superman doesn’t feel like this. Superman is dressed in reds and blues but he does not have the colour of a god, and these are only half-gods. It makes him rage, the unfairness of it all, how demigods are hunted. The monsters are horrifying. They are children. 

The swords do not escape his notice. None of them. Bruce, for all his training of small children, is definitely restraining himself from violence. His jaw is clenched. These are children forced into the war of their parents. Their heritage is dangerous. Monsters don’t do it for survival, either; it is for fun, for revenge, and their lives are nothing but scraps of paper to be discarded. That’s what it sounds like. Monsters, vying for a god’s attention, to them nothing but tiny sounds in the distance. And demigods, at the bottom of the chain, in terms of importance. It makes Clark’s blood boil. It makes all of theirs. 

Malcolm sounds used to it, and that makes him more sad. 

“Counsellor’s meeting,” someone calls over to Malcolm. The Justice League doesn’t seem to be known here. Malcolm had explained that too. Their world is too dangerous for mortals, so they hide away with little to no contact with them. People stare at them weirdly, but they are more concerned with survival. The same happens with this person. Their eyes flick over Clark, take in the bright and colourful suits, and then go straight back to Malcolm. They are strangers, here. “Percy said you can bring them if you really have to.”

Malcolm nods at the person, looks at them, considers the pros and cons. Clark can practically see the gears turning. Malcolm is very calming, in this sea of magic. 

“Guess you’re coming with,” he sighs. “Be quiet, and don’t interrupt. Let’s go to the Big House.”

The Big House lives up to its name. Clark stands in the corner and tries to ignore how they are all very old people in a room of teenagers. They are very loud, as teenagers tend to be. 

The meeting starts off simple. There’s a short introduction of them, and then the Justice League listens to the teenager and stays quiet and does not interrupt. The yelling starts, but it is controlled yelling, because progress is still being made. At least, that’s what Clark makes out from the consensus. It involves something about revealing themselves to the mortal world. (Isn’t that funny; that even though there are aliens and metas among them, they are still considered mortal.)

Ten minutes in, there are at least two agreements; minimise damage, and keep their people safe. There is some convergence on how to do this. This is where most of the yelling starts. Many different languages are involved. Clark doesn’t catch all of it, but he knows Bruce is, so it’s okay to check out for a minute or two. 

A rainbow appears instead. Silence is effectively imposed like a knife to the throat. For the rowdiness, they are surprisingly orderly when needed. Percy tosses a coin in and an image appears full of wild red curls. 

“Percy,” the redhead says, and Clark hears Bruce’s heart jump a little. Only a little, so not that bad. Just surprising. Bruce does not like surprises. “You need to get to Annabeth. Right now.”

“Where is she?” If Percy was intense before, it’s nothing compared to right now. The temperature in the room seems to rise. The campers don’t move, but they tense up. Minute glances are exchanged out of the corner of their eyes. He feels…scary. 

“Gotham. Went to pick up Damian.”

Clark is paying attention now. 

“There’s something—wrong. Old. I saw—dark, Percy. Really dark.”

“I’m leaving now.” And he absolutely seems like it. No one is moving to stop him. 

“You can’t go there directly,” the redhead says. Percy stops, even though it looks like he wants to move. Clark doubts he could stop him. There is colour roiling off of him in waves. It is not just blue; it is endless. There is another dimension there that he could fall into and never come out of. Percy’s power dips into something beyond mortal comprehension; colour is not just colour, he sees every reflection of him. 

“Mouth Orthys, first,” the redhead says. Despite her fiery hair, all Clark sees when he looks is green. Her eyes are green, and distant. “Someone will meet you there and provide you with a tool. They are waiting for you.”

“Aren’t they always,” someone mutters. Clarisse shoots the room a poisonous glare. Percy’s jaw clenches, but does not say anything, and a small, “Sorry,” is added. He is so young. He feels so old. 

“They want them,” the girl in the rainbow adds. Her finger is directed to the four odd ones out. “Bring one more for two teams of three.” The girl’s eyes are slightly less fogged, now. The opaqueness clears into something resembling sadness. “I’m—”

“Don’t.”

He walks like a storm cloud. Thunder and lightning alike follow in his wake. Clark can feel it. It makes him dizzy. This is uncontained power squeezed into a tiny vessel. 

“Clark.” 

Bruce is calling his name. His eyes are worried beneath the cowl. Clark can see them without trying. “You shouldn’t have come,” he mutters. “The magic is affecting you.”

That sounds right. Clark looks at his team, and then the family of demigods around them, and the one person who leads them out of not duty, but love. He is powerful with power that only comes with age. He is barely eighteen. 

“I’m fine,” Clark responds. “Let’s worry about these people first.” He glances to where the boy (god) has stalked off. “I think they need it more.”