Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Annabeth’s eyes rapidly flit from left to right and back again.

Her eyebrows furrow.

She repeats the motion, a little slower than she usually allows herself, but the words remain the same.

Unfortunately, due to our division’s handling of extremely sensitive technologies and confidential information, Wayne Technologies of Wayne Enterprises is not accepting interns pursuing a bachelor’s degree, or lower, at this time.

Exceptions for individuals over the age of 25 will be made on a case-by-case basis. Please consult our hiring office for more information on this policy.

Full-time jobs at Wayne Technologies are available for those currently holding, at the least, a bachelor’s degree. Prior work experience is recommended, but not required, as WE promotes a holistic resume evaluation. If you’d like to learn more about our full-time positions, click here.

Additionally, WE offers internships for degree and non-degree holders under any one of our other various divisions listed here.

We apologize for the inconvenience, but rest assured, Wayne Technologies values hardworking and innovative minds and we’d love to have you on board at the completion of your undergraduate experience. Good luck and we hope to see you soon!

Annabeth’s pencil snaps under the pressure of her grip, wood splintering across her ruffled notebook. Her resume, furiously marked up with annotations, underlined and crossed out words, and margin notes taunts her from beside her laptop.

How could she have missed this?

How could she have spent days pouring over Wayne Technologies’ business history, their values, their leaders and their employees, their industry contributions, every available detail just so that she could be fully prepared for an interview, only to find out now that she would never even be allowed to submit an application.

She glares at the screen, at the offending words, until the brightness starts to seep through to the back of her brain.

Percy’s hand settles gently on her shoulder, and she remembers to breathe, blinking away her building headache. It’s only until Percy starts rubbing into a particularly tense knot with his thumb that she allows herself to slump in her chair.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, sliding his other hand down to loop loosely around her neck.

Annabeth tilts her head to press her cheek into his wrist. Only Percy could get away with something like this.

“Wayne’s not taking tech interns,” she mutters, scowling, “Over some privacy concerns. He’s the only one in the world. No other self-respecting company would want to miss out on young blood, especially with how fast the tech world is evolving.”

Annabeth rights her head to read the website one last time, just to be sure. The words don’t change. She reaches up and snatches the translation glasses off, gently tossing them onto her now-useless, uniquely-tailored-for-Wayne-recruiters resume. The letters before her flip from Greek back to English.

Percy leans forward and rests his chin in her curls.

“His loss, wise girl,” he grumbles.

“I know that,” Annabeth lashes out, “But it’s mine too.”

Percy removes his hands from her collarbone, and when Annabeth swivels her chair around to face him, he is sitting on the armrest of their couch, waiting for her to explain. Annabeth kicks her feet out to place them between his.

“I love architecture,” she begins, taking a deep breath.

“You do,” Percy agrees, with a knowing smile and Annabeth shoots him a look for interrupting.

“But having free reign over Olympus has kind of spoiled me,” she confesses.

In front of anyone else, Annabeth might have to force those words from her lips, but with Percy, it’s always too easy.

“I need work experience before I graduate, but I wouldn’t survive as an intern for an architect firm.”

“They wouldn’t survive you,” Percy corrects, nudging her feet with his, “I can totally see it. Them giving you blueprints to study and you giving them back with all their mistakes circled in red. Or,” he laughs, “Them begging you to just straight up finish their designs for them.”

Annabeth snorts but doesn’t disagree.

Knowing her current skill level, she would rather dress up for a tea party with all three Furies than be reduced to just making powerpoint presentations for clients or writing up reports on zoning laws. And no top architecture firm would hire her full-time with only two years of college under her belt, no matter how impressive her mortal-safe portfolio was.

“That’s why I want to get into tech,” Annabeth explains, “It’ll give me something to do while I wait to graduate, and it’ll improve my job prospects later. I don’t want to wait until I get my degree to get into the field. Tech moves fast. I can’t get left behind.”

Percy tilts his head, contemplating.

“Does it have to be Wayne’s company?” he questions.

“WE is the best,” Annabeth insists, “I have to work there.”

She isn’t just spouting rankings from popular business magazines. She’s done her research. Not only has the technology branch of Wayne Enterprises dipped into consumer electronics and high-tech solutions for the general public, but they’ve also invested millions of dollars into research and development in nanotech, biotech, superalloys, and so much more, all while promoting security, privacy, and advancement for the benefit of the people.

The people behind the company are just as impressive. There’s Bruce Wayne, founder, ex-CEO, and current majority shareholder, who at first glance acts exactly like the ditzy playboy billionaire that everyone believes him to be. Annabeth’s deeper investigations reveal him to be much more philanthropic and strategic with his business decisions than people realize.

Then, there is his adopted son, Timothy Drake-Wayne, who is the head of WayneTech R&D. He’s a year younger than her, but apparently some sort of genius, something to which she can relate. Looking into the projects Drake-Wayne spearheaded, Annabeth can’t help but admire his ambition.

And lastly, Lucius Fox, current CEO of Wayne Enterprises as a whole. Originally having been hired in WE’s financial division, he had showcased his sharp mind and climbed ranks fast. Bruce Wayne had aptly appointed the man CEO. Where WE had started off as a wealthy, but small and somewhat struggling company based out of Gotham, Fox has forged it into a multinational corporate giant in just little over a decade.

Annabeth wants, no, needs, to be part of it.

“What’s your other option?” Percy asks, because of course he knows she has one.

Annabeth’s mouth twists into an ugly grimace.

“LexCorp,” she practically spits out.

Percy purses his lips, trying not to laugh at her passionate rage.

“That bad?” he asks sympathetically.

“It’s a good company,” Annabeth hesitates, trying to recover from her initial gut reaction, but fails, “I just hate it.”

Percy’s lips break free, and he snorts into his hands. Annabeth digs her toe into his calf to get him to shut up.

“Stop, stop, okay,” he relents, half pleading and half laughing, “What’s the deal with them?”

Annabeth doesn’t really know where to start. The company itself is impressive, she can admit that much. It had started off as a simpler aerospace engineering firm and has grown to become one of Wayne Enterprises’ biggest rivals through numerous corporation acquisitions and well-timed real estate decisions. All under the leadership of one Lex Luthor.

Never mind, she does know. Lex Luthor. He is the problem. Comparatively speaking, she doesn’t know as much about Luthor as she knows about Wayne. While Wayne has carefully constructed a misleading, yet not entirely untruthful persona for the media to eat up, Luthor keeps any real details about his personal life under lock and key. There is hardly anything of value about the man that she could find online.

It’s up to the company to speak for him, which Annabeth figures is his plan anyways because LexCorp itself shines. It promotes innovation, philanthropy, and all the other great value pillars that people raved about, but none of that is personally backed by Luthor. She barely knows anything about the company’s structure either; even its board of directors remains a secret to outsiders.

“It’s Lex Luthor,” she tells Percy, “Something about him puts me on edge.”

“It’s ‘cause he’s bald,” her boyfriend replies instantly, green eyes glinting with humor.

Annabeth lets out a burst of laughter, finally fully relaxing and leaning back in the chair. Gods, she loves him.

“Yeah, seaweed brain, I’m sure that’s it.”

In the end, Annabeth admits defeat.

For now, at least.

She skims her newly constructed resume, humming, double and triple checking that everything is perfectly worded and perfectly aligned.

She’s swapped out some of the verbs that imply creativity and collaboration for some that hint at ambition and aggression. The change is slight, something that would only register subconsciously in the minds of recruiters but given the company’s history with buying out other business, she makes sure to tailor her tone to reflect their values.

It’s perfect, she decides. Well, perfect enough.

Sliding the tips of her fingers over the mousepad, Annabeth uploads both her resume and her portfolio to the application and, without hesitation, clicks ‘submit’.

The email arrives at a somewhat inconvenient time. She and Percy have just gotten back to the dorm they share from a long night of studying at the library. Her next final, for Environmental Systems: Sites and Sustainability is in seventy minutes, and she still has to shower to look somewhat presentable for the section of her test that consists of demonstrating her end-of-semester model to the board of professors. If Percy insists that she looks beautiful even after hours of blearily reading and rewriting notes in a stuffy building, well, he's just being biased. (He's not.)

Anyways, Annabeth returns to her room and before stepping into her bathroom, flips open her laptop by habit to refresh her email.

The words LexCorp Recruiting: Re: Your Application appear in a highlighted rectangle, and maybe Annabeth is being arrogant, or maybe she just knows what she’s capable of, but she already knows what the email’s contents will say.

It’s inconvenient, not because it contains a rejection that will distract her from her exam, but because LexCorp’s offer for an initial interview will tempt her to start prepping her responses when she should be reciting waste management and environmental impact statistics instead.

“I got an interview,” she calls out, as Percy passes her door on his way to their small kitchen.

“Obviously,” he calls back, fondly, and disappears out of frame.

A moment later, however, he returns to give her a brief hug and congratulations.

After he leaves to get ready for his own final, Annabeth skims the rest of the email. There are a lot of sentences that say next to nothing of value, and some that hash out the details of the meeting, but a few words near the bottom catch her eye.

Following your behavioral interview, if we deem you suitable for our program, a technical interview will be scheduled where you will be asked to demonstrate proficiency in your programming language of choice.

Annabeth frowns.

The website hadn’t specified that the internship was a computer science one. Perhaps coding is just a method they use to gauge problem solving skills, but if not, that’s something she’ll have to bring up to the recruiter. She knows two programming languages, at an intermediate level, so she doesn’t think it’ll be an issue, but she wants a more project management role, one that’ll test her leadership as well as problem solving skills.

Shrugging, she closes out the browser, grabs her towel and glides into the shower.

She aces her final, because of course she does. Even if her professors at New Rome University hadn’t known her as Annabeth Chase, Daughter of Athena, Hero of Olympus, One of the Seven, and Official Architect of Olympus—which, at this point, is impossible—her work speaks for itself. An hour of ooh-ing and aah-ing goes by before Annabeth is finally allowed to leave the showroom and collapse in her bed. Percy joins her a half hour later, resting the total weight of his body on her back, but she doesn’t mind the pressure as long as he pulls the cover over the both of them. She sleeps most of the day away, warm and secure, only leaving the nest when Percy’s stomach growls with hunger.

“How’d it go?” Annabeth asks, as she watches her boyfriend shovel some pasta down his throat.

“’S pre’y goo’,” he nods, swallowing, “I think I got B. There were some concepts I didn’t really remember but I finished answering everything I knew.”

“I forget how much the extra time helps,” he adds, as an afterthought, and Annabeth nods understandingly.

Where it might’ve been hard to get approved for extra time at mortal education institutions, it was beyond common at NRU, and anyone with ADHD was practically guaranteed it.

“Yours?” Percy questions.

Annabeth gives him a small smile around her fork.

“They called my model revolutionary,” she smirks.

Percy laughs delightedly at her pride.

“By the way, when’s the interview?” he asks, tilting his head, “Want me to drop you off?”

“Two days, in Metropolis,” Annabeth frowns, “You have an exam then.”

She’s lucky that her presentation today was the last of her finals, so she can focus her energy on packing up to move out. She’d originally been planning to move back to New York to stay with Percy for the summer, but if everything goes according to plan, she’ll have to start looking for housing in Metropolis. Percy mirrors her expression, having come to the same conclusion.

“That’s not too far from home,” he settles, “I’ll just have to visit you all the time.”

Annabeth smiles as he reaches forward and twists her fingers into his.

“Every weekend,” she agrees.

Annabeth steps forward and tilts her chin up to look at the dizzying height of LexCorp’s main headquarters. Then, pushing on one of the many glass doors, lets herself into the building. She strides towards the front desk with purpose, tucking her shoulder blades back.

“My name is Annabeth Chase,” she introduces herself politely but firmly to the receptionist at the front desk, “I’m here for my internship interview.”

She glances at the small clock on the wall beside the man. She’s exactly fifteen minutes early.

The receptionist blinks up at her, and Annabeth keeps her face neutral despite wanting to raise her eyebrows. Then, he fumbles behind his desk and produces a clipboard.

“You can sign in here,” he instructs.

Annabeth takes the board from him, and scans it, her wire-frame glasses translating the words into Greek for her.

“May I have a pen?” she asks blandly, not looking up.

“What? Oh.”

She hears him scramble for a second before a blue pen slides into her view. She plucks it from his fingers and, in English, neatly prints her name, phone number, and reason for visit in the next empty row. She places the pen on top of the clipboard and holds it back to him.

He double checks it and asks for her ID. After he’s verified that Annabeth is who she says she is and is supposed to be here, he gives her a guest badge and points her in the direction of the elevator.

Annabeth thanks him and tucks the manilla folder she’s brought containing paper copies of her resume and portfolio under her elbow before following his instructions.

She already doesn’t like the building. The distance from the receptionist desk to the elevators is too large to make sense for visitors. Everything is sleek and grey and minimalistic, which Annabeth might have appreciated in small amounts, but here, the aesthetic dampens the mood. Nothing is interesting enough to catch her eye, as if LexCorp refuses to allow anything to distract its employees. The ceilings are high but entirely empty and the walls are the same dull color as the flooring. Annabeth’s short heels clack against it as she crosses the lobby and flashes her badge at the turnstiles.

Once she’s on the third floor, she turns right, as the receptionist had instructed, and counts the plaques beside the doors until she reaches room 342. She takes a quick look down at her attire. Black slacks, ironed to perfection, and a long sleeve light blue blouse. Simple, professional, and covering anything of interest on her body, such as the hardened muscles and numerous battle scars she’s acquired over the years.

She’s precisely five minutes early when she pushes open the door and takes her seat.

Early on, the questions are traditional. Tell us about yourself. What are you studying? What industry experience do you have? Why LexCorp? What’s a time you were faced with hardship and how did you overcome it? What’s your greatest strength? What’s your greatest weakness?

Annabeth rattles off her practiced, yet not too polished answers with relative ease. She boasts an impressive vocabulary, careful not to use words that sound big but say nothing, and twenty minutes in she has the entire board of recruiters—three severe looking adults—hanging on to her every sentence.

“What do you plan to contribute to LexCorp?” the middle one asks, after scribbling a few words from her last answer onto a pad of paper.

Annabeth doesn’t even have to think. She’s had this answer ready, just like all the others, no matter that it’s not actually a truthful one.

“Evolution,” she announces, taking the time to look each of them in the eyes, “At any cost.”

Annabeth is pleased as the one on the left actually shivers slightly under her gaze and confidence. They’re all lucky that she doesn’t actually support the sentiment. Annabeth has always been a good liar, when she needs to be, at least.

The one in the middle nods slowly, and Annabeth will bet anything that what they’re writing down in their notes is word for word what she has just said.

Maybe Annabeth is being arrogant, or maybe she just knows what she’s capable of, but she knows the spot is hers before she even leaves the room.

Three days later, Percy is lounging on the sofa in her new temporary living space that overlooks Heroes Park when the company sends her the email to confirm what she’s already deduced. He digs his spoon into the tub of blueberry ice cream but Annabeth leans down and snags the bite with her mouth.

“Got the internship,” she informs him, before he can pout.

Percy takes advantage of her proximity and kisses her. Annabeth doesn’t know if he wants to taste her or the ice cream, but she’s not complaining.

“And if you hadn’t?” Percy asks, after pulling away, referring to the fact that she had signed the lease to the Metropolis apartment place days ago.

“Don’t be ridiculous, that would have never happened,” she grins, taking the spot next to him on the couch and draping her legs over his thighs.

Percy pulls her the rest of the way onto his lap, setting the ice cream down, and wraps his hand around the back of her neck to drag her back in.

Later, when Percy’s head is awkwardly lolling on her shoulder, Annabeth scrolls through the employment contract that was included in the email as an attachment.

It’s much too wordy, and her glasses have been on too long and are starting to press against the sides of her skull, but she pushes through. She would never sign something without reading every page.

She’s just finished up the confidentiality and privacy, employee classification, and compensation and benefits sections—which is…much more generous than she was originally expecting—when she reaches the termination clause.

It starts off with the usual: a required advance notice for self-dismissal, consequences of security violations and/or breaches of contract, etc. But then there’s the last part.

In the event the employee knowingly or unknowingly takes part in aiding or abetting Superman, resident hero of Metropolis, an immediate, unconditional, and irreversible termination of employment will be issued. Under no circumstances will the individual be able to regain their previous employment at LexCorp or any of its subsidiaries. Any company assets gained by the individual during time of employment will be seized and reclaimed by LexCorp.

“What the fuck,” Annabeth actually hisses out loud, jostling Percy in his sleep.

His head shoots up and scans the exits of their apartment, hand reaching into his pocket. He only relaxes once he realizes Annabeth hasn’t moved from her place.

“What’s wrong?”

“Luthor can fire you if you help Superman,” Annabeth summarizes.

“Uh…” Percy starts, looking confused, “That can’t be allowed. That’s not allowed. Right?”

“It’s in the employee contract,” she narrows her eyes, “So technically, it is. But it’s definitely unethical.”

“Why the Hades would Luthor want to stop you from helping a superhero?” Percy asks, his voice taking on a more worried tone.

“I don’t know,” Annabeth admits.

She scrolls down, realizing that it’s the second to last page and she’s read through the whole thirty-three-page document.

“But I plan to find out,” she vows, and enters her signature.

On a beautifully sunny day at the end of May, Annabeth begins her first official day at LexCorp.

Her mood plummets instantly as she steps into the building with her brand-new intern’s badge. She has mixed feelings about this internship. She knows it’ll be good for her and her career. She’ll learn a lot, both from industry leaders and the hands-on experience. She’ll form connections with project managers, shadow cutting-edge research, and immerse herself in the corporate environment of a tech giant.

But as the elevator doors open up to the sixteenth floor and her tour guide takes her around to meet the higher ups she’ll be reporting to, Annabeth knows she is going to hate it here. The air feels slimy. Employees type monotonously into their keyboards, faces blank. More than a couple of men in suits stare at her as she walks by.

She’s completely covered up, for gods’ sake—not on their account, of course, but to avoid questions about her scars—and Annabeth really wants to just whip out her knife. Not to maim, just to threaten…and maybe slice their Achilles tendons, rendering them unable to walk.

She touches the small of her back, to reassure herself the weapon is there, but ignores the urge and continues in the tour guide’s footsteps.

Annabeth shakes hands and exchanges pleasantries with more people than she can count, although she commits every name and face to memory. After they’ve covered the entire floor, the tour guide leads her back to the elevator.

“Now for the exciting part,” the woman reveals, pressing the ‘up’ button, “He personally read the notes on your interview and asked me to bring you up to see him.”

“He?” Annabeth questions, but she has an inkling.

“Mr. Luthor,” the woman confirms, “He doesn’t come down here much, at all, really, but he’s given us permission to meet him in his office.”

Once they’re inside the lift, Annabeth watches as the woman gingerly selects the highest numbered button.

“What is he like?” Annabeth asks carefully, but makes her words come out curious and innocent.

“Mr. Luthor is…brilliant,” her tour guide reveals, eyes flicking up to the camera in the corner of the ceiling.

She doesn’t say any more.

Interesting.

“I can’t wait to meet him,” Annabeth replies, strategically enthusiastic.

She’s telling the truth, but not for the reason she leads the other woman to believe. Annabeth wonders, not for the first time, if the man is watching her from the cameras.

The tour guide gestures Annabeth to the tinted glass doors and Annabeth hesitates as she places her fingers on the handle.

“I don’t have the clearance to go inside,” the woman explains, shifting her feet, “I’ll be waiting for you out here.”

Annabeth knows she shouldn’t be making assumptions before she actually meets the man, but she already knows she’s going to hate him.

She opens the door.

Everything inside the penthouse office screams expensive. It’s not quite as minimalistic as the lobby and other floors, but Annabeth figures Luthor wouldn’t be caught dead in the same environment as his employees. There are quite a few art pieces and sculptures, of incredible quality, but they’re skillfully hideous. All dark metal, sharp lines, and harsh colors.

Annabeth only lets her eyes linger on her surroundings for a moment, before walking forward and towards the large marble slab at the end of the room. Lex Luthor is waiting for her, silently, and says nothing as she approaches until she is standing a few feet from his desk.

“Miss Annabeth Chase.”

His words observe more than greet her. Annabeth looks into his eyes, steel grey against pale green, and refuses to cower under his intense stare.

“Mr. Luthor.”

She mirrors his tone but purposefully blurs her eyes a fraction, hiding their sharpness. If her initial profile of the man is accurate, she can’t allow him to know her true potential.

The tension in the air is absolutely palpable, and Annabeth finally forces herself to submit, breaking the eye-contact. When she looks back at him, Luthor looks a tad less hostile.

“Welcome to LexCorp,” he finally says, “I trust your experience here so far has been satisfactory.”

It’s not a question, but Annabeth answers it automatically.

“Yes, Mr. Luthor,” she says dutifully, “I’ve met with all the managers in the project oversight department. They have all been extremely welcoming. Thank you for allowing me to alter the initial classification of my internship.”

Luthor gives her a cold smile and Annabeth has to, again, force down the urge to unsheathe her knife.

“Excellent. I am looking forward to seeing what someone of your caliber is able to accomplish at my company,” Luthor tells her, folding his hands.

It’s not a compliment. It’s a warning. Produce results or else.

Annabeth nods firmly.

“I am eager to start, sir,” she asserts, “I have meetings set up with Mr. Valence and Ms. Berler to discuss the current state of their respective projects and I have drafted a list of possible points of inefficiency to improve upon.”

If Luthor is at all satisfied by her level of preparation, he does not show it. He does, however, give her a very small nod of acknowledgment. When he says nothing more, Annabeth knows their time is up.

“I will leave you to your work, then, Mr. Luthor,” she says, dismissing herself before he does, “Perhaps in the coming weeks, I can schedule a time to share my progress with you, if your calendar permits.”

Annabeth doesn’t wait for his agreement, because she knows he will most likely not give it. Instead, she turns on her heel and walks back the way she came, keeping her head straight and shoulders back. She can feel Luthor’s eyes on her, and although she knows her knife is completely concealed by her clothing and the mist, a very small trickle of fear goes down her spine.

Once she closes the door to the office behind her, her tour guide looks at her in surprise. Annabeth guesses that she’s probably never seen someone remain so poised after a meeting with Lex Luthor.

Annabeth gives her a practiced sheepish smile.

“Can you point me in the direction of a bathroom?”

They end up having to descend seven floors to get to a women’s restroom, something that Annabeth has very strong negative feelings about.

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” she tells the other woman and darts inside.

Thankfully, it’s empty.

Annabeth doesn’t actually have to use the bathroom; she just needs a minute to herself in a place where Luthor can’t see her. She glances along the seams of the ceiling to be sure.

Annabeth stares at herself in the mirror. Striking grey eyes stare back.

Lex Luthor had ended up being exactly who she had predicted him to be and if Annabeth didn’t hate him so much, she would feel proud of herself for reading him so well.

Luthor is not a good person. That much is obvious, from the cold intellect, the arrogance, and the look in his eye that tells Annabeth exactly why he had allowed her to come aboard.

Evolution at any cost, she had said at her interview.

It had been a risk at the time, a calculated one based off multiple business analyses of LexCorp’s corporate strategy. Though, she didn’t expect Luthor to personally embody it as much as he did. And it wasn't just his potentially skewed business ethics; there had been something else when Annabeth had looked into his eyes. Something devoid of empathy. She had originally wanted to ask about the Superman clause in her contract but after stepping into his office, she did not dare to bring it up.

Something is very wrong with Lex Luthor, she concludes, gripping the sink before her, And I am going to find out what it is.

It takes her about a week.

The days pass quickly. The hours at work are long and busy and full of meetings, but the days themselves pass quickly. At least, Annabeth’s mind stays engaged. She never finds herself bored. There’s always something to do, people to talk to, meetings to attend.

The organization of her internship is messy, she’s well aware. Normally they would have handed her off to one of the more specialized teams where she would have spent a few weeks learning their technologies and methods before being able to contribute productively.

But, in just the first few hours, she had shown her supervisors that she was not only capable, but eager, to dip her toes into every project her clearance allowed her access to. And in another few hours she had proven that she was more than able to manage the resulting workload.

Her newfound ability to flit between teams, floors, and offices is what ultimately had led to the discovery.

The man is a supervillain.

The revelation, despite only taking a week, had formed slowly.

He doesn’t don a mask, or a costume—unless horrifically expensive suits counted—he doesn’t have a cheesy name, he doesn’t spend his nights rampaging the city causing havoc or committing acts of terrorism. But none of that matters. Annabeth knows world domination when she sees it and she knows that it is on the forefront of Lex Luthor’s mind.

All the conversation she’s had in the last week, where she’d casually slipped Luthor’s name into the discussion, has helped her notice it. Everyone in the building is afraid of him, and not in the regular ‘don’t let your boss catch you slacking off’ kind of way. People flinch at the mention of him, hesitate to say his name in irrational fear of summoning the man, and work vigorously to avoid being laid off for not being productive enough.

And the worst part is, none of them even realize it.

They know that they’re wary of him, but they all chalk it up to being awed by his intellect, and don’t realize just how much they genuinely fear him.

Before the second giant war, before Tartarus, and before Arachne, Annabeth might have felt the same way. Right now, though, she just really, really hates Luthor.

But the real kicker, the thing that makes Annabeth take the leap from megalomaniac to full-blown supervillain, is Luthor’s deep-seated hatred and, dare she say, jealousy, towards Metropolis’s hero, Superman.

She had followed the thread of curiosity originating from her contract’s termination clause only to discover that even the mere mention of the hero was taboo in the office. No one had wanted to talk about it, but Annabeth had managed to wheedle it gracefully out of them, and this is the conclusion she had reached:

Lex Luthor hates Superman because of his desperate need for control over, well, everything. And how was he to control a virtually indestructible alien with powers beyond imagination.

(Not Annabeth’s, or any demigods’ imagination, but for mortals in general.)

If she were to say the words out loud, “Lex Luthor is a supervillain”, she would probably be laughed at. Even after giving her lengthy explanation, she would probably still be laughed at. But Annabeth trusts her gut, she wouldn’t be a very good demigod if she didn’t, so she trusts it implicitly. And every time she encounters Luthor, it screams DANGER from deep inside her stomach. Maybe Percy has rubbed off on her too much, or maybe it’s just who she is, but Annabeth feels compelled to do something about it.

As she swivels in her chair at her desk, and thoughtfully chews the sandwich Percy had left for her in the fridge that morning before returning to New York, Annabeth’s brain whirls, Athena intellect kicking into overdrive.

The screen before her displays a progress report Ms. Berler had emailed to her earlier and she scrolls through it mindlessly, but she’s not reading it.

Instead, an idea starts to take shape in her mind, nine very simple steps, a plan worthy of Athena. And maybe Annabeth is being arrogant, or maybe she just knows what she’s capable of, but she already knows how this will play out.

Annabeth smiles and gets to work.

Chapter Text

Heroes Park is not as crowded as she had expected for a Saturday morning, although coming just before the crack of dawn probably has a hand in that. Annabeth’s target finally glimmers into view, and she sprints the last few hundred meters to finish off strong.

Her momentum takes her past the statue, but she tapers it off quickly, slowing to a walk. She circles back around, muscles burning pleasantly and sweat beginning to bead at her forehead. When she leans down to take a long swig from the water fountain, she hears a fellow runner approach her.

“You run professionally, or something?” he asks, wiping his upper lip with the back of his hand.

He’s halfway out of breath from his jog but still shuffles his feet in place when he stops to speak with her.

“Only for my life,” Annabeth replies, dryly.

That earns her a snort and a pair of disbelieving eyebrows, but she removes her hand from the metal sink and lets him have his turn.

Settling down on the slightly dewy grass with her arms splayed out behind her, Annabeth watches the sun appear between the buildings. Just quick flashes of yellow before it’s high enough to see clearly. The air around her turns hazy, and Annabeth uses her hand as a visor when the light starts bouncing off all the metal and glass of Metropolis’ skyscrapers.

LexCorp has it the worst, she notes, the tallest building in all the city, windows tinted to Hades. The glare is so bright she almost has to look away, but instead, she narrows her eyes at the top floor. The penthouse. She must look like an ant, she muses.

She waves her hand in a vaguely taunting hello, as if Luthor can see her from all the way up in his glass and concrete throne.

“I see you, too,” she tells him, from all the way down in hers.

Annabeth doesn’t write any of it down.

The plan remains tucked away in the safety of her brain and when she needs visual aid, she draws her diagrams in the condensation on her shower door before angling the spout and letting the water wash it away. She doesn’t speak of it aloud either, just lets her mind hash out the finer details until everything is in place.

Paranoid, maybe, but a necessary precaution.

The weekend is over as soon as it began, but Annabeth is looking forward to the next work week and doesn’t mind. She’s had more than enough time.

“I’m having a little trouble reporting to management with my current classification,” Annabeth tells one of the more willing-to-help project leaders bright and early Monday morning, “It’s getting hard to keep track of my progress and assigned tasks.”

She’s been flitting from team to team, doing bits of work at a time with no overarching structure to her internship so it’s an absolutely valid concern to have. Her first forty hours had been split up amongst six different teams, making it challenging to coordinate time without having someone to report back to, and she tells the project manager as much.

“Hmm,” he replies, scratching his beard, “That is something to rectify. I’ll look into the issue when I can.”

Annabeth knows this will take forever if she doesn’t give him a push.

“Isn’t there someone that oversees all the tech teams, or the day-to-day stuff, that I can shadow?”

It takes a little bit of effort to pretend she doesn’t understand corporate hierarchies, but the employees here, and Luthor—if he’s even given her that much thought—think that she is whip-smart yet naïve when it comes to business, and she needs to keep up that reputation.

The man’s eyes light up behind his glasses. He leans over his desk and types out a quick message. Annabeth can hear the faint whoosh sound from the monitor when he sends it out.

“I have an idea,” he reveals.

No, Annabeth thinks but doesn’t say, I do.

Annabeth's new direct supervisor is an interesting woman. Five-foot-four sans heels, with soft dark hair and almond eyes, Lana Lang, LexCorp’s chief technology officer is much too unassuming at first glance.

There’s a hardness behind her eyes, however, and an analytical intelligence that reveals the reason she’s posted so high up at the company. Annabeth doesn’t think Lang could have survived being Luthor’s second without it. The woman isn't even phased at how Annabeth towers over her when she leans in to shake her hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Annabeth,” Lang greets her, “I’m happy you’ve been transferred to work under me.”

She’s being genuine, Annabeth notices. There’s no hesitation or reluctance, just a warm, welcoming smile.

“I feel the same way, Ms. Lang,” Annabeth replies, with the same smile, and it takes less energy than any of the other introductions she’s participated in the previous week.

“Call me Lana,” her supervisor corrects, being the first person at LexCorp to offer her first name, “How do you feel about lunch today? We can discuss how you feel about the projects you’ve worked on so far and if you’d like to switch anything up. And,” Lana raises her eyebrows teasingly, “You’ll be able to log your hours.”

Oh, Annabeth likes this woman. She accepts the offer immediately.

They’ve been sitting at the table far too long for a simple lunch, but they’ve spent the entire time discussing work and Annabeth’s projected future at LexCorp, so Lana insists that it’s fine. And it’s not like Annabeth has any qualms about draining Luthor’s profits so she can enjoy a nice, filling meal at a rooftop restaurant overlooking half of Metropolis, so she doesn’t argue.

She’s told Lana all about her interests, being refreshingly honest about her intentions. Initial intentions, at least. She’s explained to the other woman about her passion for architecture, and her decision to enter the tech field to get a broader career experience. Lana, unsurprisingly, responds to Annabeth’s ambitions quite enthusiastically.

But, as nice as the conversation so far has been, it isn’t the only reason Annabeth had said yes to the lunch. She waits for Lana to swirl her wine glass and take another sip before changing the topic.

“What about you?” Annabeth questions, “How did you get involved at LexCorp?”

She takes a sip of her water as she waits for Lana to gather her thoughts.

“I was born in a really small town, practically out in the middle of nowhere,” the woman begins, “It was nice, and peaceful, but eventually I grew up. I wanted out, so I went to college for business, because I knew a degree like that could take me anywhere.”

Annabeth nods to show that she’s following along with the story.

“Is that how you ended up in Metropolis?”

Lana flushes slightly, looking somewhat sheepish, and she takes a sip of wine so that she can hide her face behind the glass for a moment.

“Ah, well, the reason for that has more to do with a boy than my career,” she reveals.

It seems like the very drink the woman is using to mask her embarrassment is what is loosening her lips in the first place.

“Childhood friend, I thought I could follow him out here and start something,” Lana smiles wryly, “It didn’t turn out that way, though.”

Annabeth hums thoughtfully.

“And yet, here you are, CTO of one of the most successful companies in the world,” she points out, “Fate works in mysterious ways.”

Lana’s eyes soften at that, and she leans back in her chair, crossing her arms.

“I suppose it does,” she agrees, “Back then, I was young and in love, and I made many questionable decisions because of it. Starting at LexCorp was just a stroke of luck, but I appreciate the lack of judgment.”

Annabeth feels a little guilty. Her lunch with Lana has been the most relaxing experience at LexCorp so far. Her shoulders aren’t as tense, and she doesn’t have to carefully control her tone and word choice every time she opens her mouth, but that doesn’t mean her answers are completely unscripted.

“There’s nothing to judge when it comes to love,” Annabeth declares, and then, because she can’t help it, tacks on, “As long as you don’t sacrifice yourself.”

It’s taken years for Annabeth to come to that conclusion for herself and reconcile the old head versus heart argument. She and her siblings are all naturally dispositioned to side with head, and often clash with the Aphrodite kids who firmly support heart. Years of experience later, Annabeth has found that it doesn’t matter which side she takes, as long as it’s her head or her heart making that decision.

Lana must hear the conviction in her voice because she looks at Annabeth like she sees something she hadn’t before.

“This Thursday,” the woman starts, words coming out slowly and then picking up speed, “The board is conducting their semi-annual performance review, and I think you should accompany me.”

The sharp stab of victory in Annabeth’s gut casts aside her guilt, and she widens her eyes and—not too meekly—replies, “Me?”

"I know your interest is in the much more hands-on aspects of LexCorp, but I think this experience would be good for you. It’ll give you the opportunity to see how all the decisions are made around here.”

Annabeth nods slowly as if she's carefully thinking over the suggestion.

“I’d like that,” she decides, and Lana smiles sharply.

“Excellent. I’ll email you the details and meeting protocols you should be aware of,” the woman says, sliding her phone open.

It only takes a second before Annabeth feels her pocket vibrate with the invitation.

“Oh, and Annabeth,” Lana turns to her, after she flags down the waiter for the check, “Naturally, Mr. Luthor will also be there. I expect you to bring your a-game.”

Annabeth smiles like she understands the instruction, but she’s not sure any of them are quite ready for that yet.

Outside of work hours, Annabeth preps for the board meeting with her weekly Bechdel call, because while Lex Luthor may think the world revolves around him, Annabeth’s certainly does not.

She flips a drachma into the air and the rainbow ripples into an Iris message. Settling back into the couch, Annabeth kicks her feet up on the coffee table and waits for Piper to appear.

It’s been a while since they’ve last spoken, but once they start talking, it’s hard to stop. They chat for almost forty minutes about school, and finals, and camp, and Oklahoma, and Shel, and in that time, the sun has started to set.

Finally, Piper asks her about her internship.

“How is it? You doing anything interesting?”

“Tech stuff here and there,” Annabeth shrugs vaguely, “Mostly just telling people how to do their jobs, but in nicer words.”

Piper’s eyes narrow immediately. The girl has the unnerving ability to take Annabeth apart, a skill that has only gotten sharper over the years. Annabeth knows that if she asks Piper about it, she will just say it's a best friend thing.

“There’s more. You look scheme-y. What’re you really working on?” she demands.

Annabeth looks past the message, into the reflection of the tv. The orange sun behind her catches the edges of her hair, draping her face in shadow, and all she can see of herself is glowing yellow curls and pale eyes. Annabeth grins but shakes her head.

“It doesn’t pass the test.”

Annabeth had already signed multiple NDAs at the start of the program, but an hour before the board meeting, Lana hands her another stack of paper and a pen. Thankfully, they're not double-sided, and it only takes half an hour for her to thoroughly examine all the consequences of sharing board information with the public. Lana comes to collect her and the signed document when it’s time to make their way upstairs.

Annabeth stands up and smooths down her attire. She’s dressed for her character, with a modest grey pencil skirt, only slightly transparent tights, white blouse, and matching grey blazer. Professional, but not flashy. Competent, yet approachable.

She follows Lana, two steps behind and one to the left, out the elevator and through the tall glass doors into the conference room. Unlike Luthor’s office, these walls are fully transparent, and Annabeth sees them before they see her.

LexCorp’s board of directors is smaller than she expected, a mere seven heads. It’s a detail that Annabeth needs to work into her plan, but now is not the time. She straightens her spine, stands in the shadow of Lana’s left shoulder, and sweeps her eyes over the oblong table with a neutral but pleasant face.

“Ms. Lang, good to see you,” the man at the head of the table, in the chairman’s seat, tilts his chin forward in a greeting.

Lana returns the gesture and steps to the side to reveal more of Annabeth.

“You as well. This is my intern, Annabeth Chase. As I informed the board earlier this week, she will be present for today’s meeting at my recommendation,” the woman says to the entire table.

Most of them look unphased, or simply uninterested in her, which is better than disdain, but not exactly the reception she was aiming for. Annabeth very briefly moves her eyes across the room and makes eye contact with the man who just spoke, the chairman of the board. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a resting unimpressed expression softened only slightly by faint smile lines.

“Thank you for allowing me to be here, it’s an honor to meet the backbone of LexCorp,” Annabeth says, blinking only once.

The statement gets her mixed micro reactions from the rest of the table. An older woman with red hair, who is sitting to the chairman’s right, frowns down at her lap but says nothing. Seven, Annabeth denotes. A man with stringy, dirty blond hair looks abnormally triumphant. Two, she assigns.

There are precisely five chairs remaining. The chairman is sitting at one end, five chairs on either side of the table, and the remaining directors occupy the six closest to him. Lana sits beside one of the directors, younger than the others—though not by much—with a distant look in his eye. Annabeth takes the seat next to her. Three chairs remaining. Two across the table and one at the other end, directly to Annabeth’s left.

A middle-aged man strolls through the door, nodding at the rest of them, and takes one of the chairs across from her. A minute later, another man, cut from the same cloth as the first, takes the second to last seat. Annabeth recognizes them as the chief financial officer and chief operating officer.

The board is silent, not speaking to each other, or on their phones; they simply wait. Annabeth tries her best not to fidget.

Luthor is the last to arrive. He’s not late, by any means. One look at the clock shows that he’s precisely on time, almost to the second, but Annabeth thinks it’s because the man knows they can’t start without him. He hardly even glances at her as he takes his seat at the other end of the table. Instead, he stares straight at the chairman, who presses a small button and waits for the light to start blinking.

“I’d like to call to order the LexCorp Incorporated semi-annual board of directors meeting on June 2nd, 2022. First, I will conduct a roll call,” the chairman announces, “Bauer.”

The woman who frowned, the seven, goes next.

“Abernathy.”

The rest of the directors follow.

Heath, Flores, Markham—the man who smiled, the two—and Vaughn.

The c-suite officers go next, Kasten, Heyeck, and Lang, and then Annabeth, who says “Chase” in a soft but clear voice.

Luthor goes last, and when he says his name, his tone sounds so high and mighty and familiar that Annabeth wants to stab him. It would be so easy, too; she's only a couple of feet away and she’d be able to take him by surprise.

“Are there any late additions to the agenda?” Bauer voices over her inner thoughts and pauses.

The chief operating officer, Heyeck, shifts in his seat to draw attention.

“There is an item I’d like to discuss after our scheduled reports,” he announces, “It concerns my observations on employee productivity as of late.”

Annabeth watches as Bauer scribbles a note onto the sheet of paper before him.

“I acknowledge your addition,” he says, mostly for the recording, “We will begin our meeting today with the executive report.”

Annabeth very much dislikes the feeling of having to look up at Luthor when he stands to give his speech, so she fixates on the knot of his tie instead.

“For the first half of this year, LexCorp has focused the bulk of its energy on Luthor Technologies and Luthor Communications. We’ve made considerable progress in weapons development and robotics and have expanded the widespread presence and use of LexTel and Luthor News Network.”

So, he’s made his weapons sharper, robots smarter, and media stations more capable of brainwashing, Annabeth translates, mentally rolling her eyes. How cliché. Unfortunately, Luthor’s first few sentences that speak of the company’s achievements do so quite broadly, and it’s hard for her to get a grasp on exactly what he’s accomplished.

Annabeth listens to the rest of his report with rapt attention. Most of what he is saying about performance data, current internal and external issues, and market statistics are things that she already knows, but she takes the time to study his mannerisms. It’s a rare opportunity she’s been given to be able to analyze the man without him staring back.

He’s perfectly poised, confident in his words, and leaves no room for argument. When he says that Luthor Technologies’ fertilizers and preservatives are a few points behind one of their competitors in the market, it’s not an admission of failure; it’s simply a fact that Annabeth, and the rest of the board, can tell he means to change.

Luthor’s business tone tapers off into something a hair more casual, and she can tell he’s approaching the conclusion of his report.

“As for upcoming events, I’d like to inform you that a fundraising gala for Luthor Hospital will be held in three weeks, on June 24th, to raise money for the new children’s wing. The invitation will be forwarded to you all by tomorrow evening,” the man announces, and Annabeth hates the way he purposefully softens his voice to deliver the news, “That concludes my executive report. Let us continue with the next item on the agenda.”

The younger director next to Lana, Heath, leans farther back in his chair and Annabeth catches the movement. When she looks over, he looks mildly approving of the last announcement, but there’s also a hint of boredom behind his eyes. Annabeth gives him a six. Across the table, Tran, a director with short black hair and the faint shadow of a mustache purses his thin lips, ever so slightly. Annabeth gives him a four.

Kasten, the chief financial officer, stands a few seconds after Luthor sits and begins to talk about their current finances and stock updates. Annabeth’s ADHD is getting steadily worse, but unfortunately, how much money is being poured into which departments is important information to have so she forces her ears to remain focused. His report correlates with what Luthor had said, with a bulk of funding being assigned to research and development in the areas of progress that Luthor had reported.

Eventually, he, too, slows his speech, thanks the board for their time, and returns to his seat. Then, Lana clears her throat and rises gracefully.

"Thank you, Mr. Luthor and Mr. Kasten for those reports. I'd like to follow up with my own on the progress of the Luthor Technologies division. Mr. Luthor has briefly touched upon some of the work we've accomplished, so I'd like to go more in-depth about what these accomplishments mean for the future of LexCorp."

As Lana speaks, she glances around the room in a practiced manner, not too slow, not too fast.

“For our weaponry projects, one of our most notable is the Sky Sentry. As you might have read the reports, the Sky Sentry is a defense mechanism that is capable of knocking out the guidance system of any missile. This in itself is an incredible achievement. However, the high energetic magnetic beam developed and perfected by our researchers that is used in the Sky Sentry will allow us to create even more impressive defensive technologies.”

Lana looks down briefly at her notes, paper littered with the names and descriptions of future projects that employ the magnetic beam she pushed her department to develop. Annabeth can tell she’s debating on her next sentence, and when she looks up, Annabeth knows she’s going to make the wrong decision.

“In the meantime,” the woman declares, and Annabeth mentally sighs, “Luthor Technologies will be demonstrating the Sky Sentry next Thursday to our military contractors at a public event.”

“Ah, yes,” Luthor interrupts smoothly, “I will be taking over the administration of that presentation. I expect you to be there regardless.”

Annabeth has come to really like Lana. It's that very fact that prevents her from grabbing Luthor's tie and smashing his too-big head into the marble table. She’s able to stop herself, but she hopes her intention doesn’t show. However, that may not be the case, if the way Lana very softly places her fingers on Annabeth’s stiff shoulder is any indication.

Thankfully, Luthor doesn’t seem to notice. She would be suspicious of how oblivious the man seems to her, but she understands his ego. She understands that, in his head, there is no chance that a simple, blonde intern could be of any danger to him. She un-tenses her muscles, and Lana drops her hand.

“As for our robotics division, we’ve started the prototyping phase of most of the blueprints I presented during our last meeting, and I expect to provide you finished prototypes for thirty projects by our December meeting,” Lana continues, and after a few more minutes of various tech updates, she finishes with a, “Thank you for your time.”

She doesn’t bring up the remaining bullet points on her card that Annabeth can see from this angle.

“At this time, we will address the added item to the agenda,” Bauer takes the cue to continue with the meeting, nodding his head at the chief operating officer.

Heyeck stands, meeker than the rest of his c-suite officers, and adjusts his tie.

“I wanted to bring to your attention to a matter I’ve noticed recently. Employee productivity has been falling, especially in the internal IT and accounting divisions. For the most part, the research and development leaders have been unaffected, but our software developers and engineers have also been experiencing low morale. I've outlined a list of current and potential future consequences to the company if we allow this to continue, as well as my analysis on the cause, that I will distribute at the end of the meeting. However, I wanted to discuss possible solutions. My proposed plan includes a combination of further access to education and necessary trainings and a new program to rejuvenate morale with networking and team-building events. I also suggest a renovation of the main office spaces to boost motivation and comfort."

Holy Hera. Annabeth holds her breath and feels half the occupants in the room do the same. One thing is obvious. Heyeck did not just notice this ‘as of late’. He most certainly had been researching for weeks, if not months, and the reason did not include his report in the original agenda was likely in fear of Luthor’s reaction. And he had every right.

Annabeth glances over to the man in question, gripping the pen before her. Luthor’s face is so carefully blank, but she can see the fury behind his eyes. She knows that if he could fire his COO, he would, in a heartbeat. But there are probably clauses in Heyeck’s contract that call for specific conditions to be met for his termination to be appropriate, and Annabeth doubts that asking for better working conditions for employees counts.

“I haven’t noticed any such issue,” Luthor says, mildly, staring down Heyeck.

Annabeth can hear what he’s trying to communicate. You haven’t either.

“That’s only natural, as you have other, external, responsibilities to attend to. My job requires me to oversee internal affairs and, in this report,” Heyeck brandishes a staples stack of paper, “You can see I’ve outlined everything.”

The man is stronger than Annabeth had originally given him credit for. It's a small victory that she sets aside to work into her plan.

“I see,” Luthor all but hisses, “And what of the funding required for this project of yours, have you run the numbers?”

“Education and training, two million, the networking events, one million, and the office renovations,” Heyeck hesitates for the first time, “twenty-three million.”

Annabeth closes her eyes at that number. She misses Luthor's reaction as she does so, but by this point, she can already guess how he feels about that.

“Twenty-six million dollars?” someone exclaims, and her eyes shoot open at the new voice, “You want us to approve that money for what, so employees can be happier, and work a little harder? They should be doing that anyway!"

Annabeth watches that man who just spoke, Vaughn. The director is looking at Heyeck with a mixture of incredulity and anger. The man pays no attention to Luthor but instead directs all his fury to the COO, who slouches his shoulders. Annabeth mentally furrows her eyebrows. It takes her a few seconds, but she gives him an eight.

“I agree with the sentiment. Perhaps not on as emotional of a level,” Luthor continues, “But I don’t see the benefit in putting aside that much money. There is nothing wrong with LexCorp’s offices.”

In actuality, twenty-six million dollars is something LexCorp could spare multiple times over, but Annabeth has a sneaking suspicion it’s Luthor who doesn’t want to part with the cash just for it to be spent on remodeling the hideous minimalist offices he’s so attached to.

“Employee productivity is not to be taken lightly,” the second female director, Flores, cuts in, “It’s quite a powerful thing. Perhaps if Mr. Heyeck is accurate in his observation, it is worth spending that much to correct the situation.”

Flores’s face is thoughtful as she looks towards Luthor for his reaction. Three, Annabeth decides.

Luthor’s lips twist into a displeased expression, and from her seat near him, Annabeth can see how worked up he is over this discussion.

“I believe your program is wholly unnecessary,” he tells Heyeck.

“I believe that if you took the time to read my report, you would see that it is,” Heyeck responds immediately, and Annabeth can see the exact moment he regrets it.

In the following silence, everyone can hear Luthor’s chair slide back a fraction of an inch. If they were alone, if it were only Luthor and Heyeck in the room, Annabeth knows how it would play out. Luthor standing over Heyeck’s body, blood on his fists and a sneer on his face.

She raises her hand.

“If I may be so bold,” she says, quietly, speaking for the first time since roll call, “I may have a suggestion.”

Eleven pairs of eyes snap to her immediately, but Annabeth only pays attention to Luthor’s.

“Go on,” she hears Bauer say from across the table.

“I understand that the Technologies division has two commercial airplanes scheduled to be finished building and sold in two weeks,” Annabeth starts, carefully.

Lana nods slowly from beside her.

“Perhaps, once LexCorp receives the full payment from the client, the board can reconvene to decide if it is willing to set aside the twenty-six million for Mr. Heyeck’s plan. By then, everyone will have the time to read over Mr. Heyeck’s report to see if the concern is valid, and, if it is, LexCorp will more than have the liquid cash required for the program.”

Annabeth doesn't think it's that novel of an idea, so she attributes the multiple stunned stares to her having the gall to share it in the first place.

She doesn’t want to, but Annabeth turns her head to meet Luthor’s gaze. He’s picking her apart, looking for her motivations, and Annabeth very firmly holds her constructed naivety in place. He doesn’t look angry anymore. Annabeth knows it’s because her suggestion, which on the surface seems to benefit Heyeck, actually gives Luthor the advantage. He’ll be able to use the extra time to build a case against Heyeck. She wishes it wasn’t the outcome, but it has to be done.

When Luthor looks away, and toward Bauer, believing her to be just an impulsive intern who doesn’t know exactly what she’s proposed, Annabeth almost breathes a sigh of relief.

“I agree with Miss Chase’s suggestion,” Heyeck announces, a sour look on his face, as he also realizes the implication of it.

“As do I,” Luthor says.

Bauer’s eyebrows furrow as he considers the occupants in the room. Finally, he nods.

"I motion that the board reconvenes in one month to discuss Mr. Heyeck’s proposition,” Bauer declares.

“I second that motion,” Abernathy voices.

Annabeth does not miss the way she looks toward Luthor before speaking.

“We will now vote,” Bauer instructs, holding up his hand, “Yes.”

Abernathy holds up her hand and says the same. The rest of the directors follow, voting yes, with the exception of Vaughn, eight, and Markham, two, who both vote no. It’s not hard for her to understand their motivations. Vaughn because he doesn’t believe the plan should be given a chance at all, and Markham because he knows the postponement will benefit Luthor.

“The motion passes,” Bauer declares, “If there are no other announcements, I move for the board to be adjourned.”

“I second it,” Heath says, quickly, tapping a pen impatiently against the table.

The directors go around once again, and this time, everyone votes yes.

Although Luthor was the last to arrive, he is the first to leave, barely giving any of them, even Annabeth, a second glance as he strides out the doors and into the elevator. No one dares to go with him.

They wait until they are sure that the lift has started making its way down before Kasten, Heyeck, and the other directors file out. Only Annabeth, Lana, and Bauer remain.

Bauer stands and walks over to the two women. When he holds out his hand to shake, Annabeth accepts immediately, plastering on a sheepish smile.

“I apologize for my interruption. I hope I wasn’t too out of line,” she forces out.

To Bauer and Lana, the words come smoothly.

“Perhaps a little,” Bauer admits, not unkindly, “But your suggestion may be of actual benefit, so I will not fault you too much for it. It’s quite a sum of money and the extra time will help us decide how to proceed.”

Annabeth has spent much of the meeting trying to assign Bauer a number, but it’s been more difficult than she had expected. It’s not hard to read him as a person or as a director—he seems very competent, but his personal motivations are murky.

“The company thanks you, Miss Chase. I hope to see you at future board meetings,” he says, before making his way out of the room.

The disappointment she feels by, finally, giving him a five, is quickly overshadowed by an almost smug satisfaction at the ways things are starting to fall into place. She just remembers to hide her smile when she feels Lana turn to her.

“Well, well, Annabeth,” the woman laughs, "Guess I made the right call, after all, bringing you."

Annabeth wishes she could blush on command, but unfortunately, it’s not one of the many skills she possesses. She shifts her gaze towards the ground instead.

“It was nothing, really,” she says hesitantly, “It just seemed like something was going to happen between Mr. Luthor and Mr. Heyeck, so I said the first thing I could think of.”

Lana’s eyes glint with amusement for a moment, then she sighs.

“It was the best thing you could do in the situation, yes, but I’m afraid it may not have the effect you hoped for,” she says, frowning.

“What do you mean?” Annabeth pretends to look confused.

Lana repeats what she already knows about the likelihood of Heyeck’s observation being dismissed, but Annabeth notices how she leaves Luthor’s name out of it, careful not to blame him.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” Lana interrupts her, “To be honest, it was kind of always a lost cause. Heyeck’s been wanting to remodel the offices for years, but he’s never been able to make it happen.”

Briefly, Annabeth wishes she would’ve said something different. Maybe then, the COO’s plan would have been approved, and Annabeth could’ve weaseled her way into the redesigning team. Gods, the look on Luthor’s face when he realized she would be tearing up his precious slabs of concrete for something much more aesthetic would have been so satisfying. Unfortunately, she has to keep the bigger picture in mind.

She looks at Lana with a slightly defeated expression, and the woman pats her on the shoulder sympathetically.

Internally, however, she feels victorious, as the first puzzle piece slides neatly into place.

As noted by Annabeth:

Vaughn – 8 – morally unstable, supports Luthor’s methods
Abernathy – 7 – vaguely loyal to Luthor
Heath – 6 – seems fine with Luthor, somewhat clueless
Bauer – 5 – only motivated by the good of the company
Tran – 4 – doesn’t seem to like Luthor, but professional
Flores – 3 – doubts Luthor’s methods, impartial to him as a person
Markham – 2 – doesn’t like Luthor at all, unsure why

Chapter Text

Lana delicately places the pad of her finger atop the biometric lock, leans forward to let the system scan her iris, and waits. It only takes a second for her credentials to be authenticated, and the heavy doors unlock with a soft hiss. Annabeth’s eyes linger briefly on the intricate security as she follows Lana through the open doors.

“Welcome to R&D,” Lana calls out over her shoulder, somewhat dramatically.

It does deserve the theatrics, Annabeth observes, despite the fact she cannot see any of the individual labs. Dozens of windowless doors line the hallway, each shut tightly against intruders, and guarded by their own security scanners. A scientist bustles into view, pressing the card on the end of his lanyard against a black rectangle. When the light flashes green, he quickly slips inside. Annabeth thinks she catches a glimpse of fire from inside, but the employee pulls the door closed behind him before she can confirm it.

It's bright and early on Monday, the start of her third week at LexCorp and second week of her plan. What can she say, Annabeth moves fast. It’s a weird little thing ingrained in her since childhood, both a blessing and a curse.

On today’s to-do list is this tour of LexCorp’s R&D labs that Annabeth had coaxed Lana into offering her.

“Where are all the cameras?” she says to Lana, furrowing her brow.

She’s gotten used to seeing one, if not more, at every corner on the floors she usually works on and the bare ceilings here are a startling change.

"Luthor doesn't want to risk anyone hacking into the feeds," Lana sighs like this is a consistently sore topic to discuss.

“And you don’t agree?” Annabeth asks mildly, keeping her gaze on the laboratory doors as they walk by.

“The projects we work on are heavily safeguarded, and I understand his reasoning, but having eyes on what goes on in the labs is important too,” Lana explains, “Now, why don’t we actually go inside one of the labs. I’ve been talking your ear off about everything, and you haven’t even gotten to see any of it.”

Annabeth thinks she understands. It’s a mixture of paranoia and overconfidence. That Luthor is so incredibly wary of outsiders, but also so prideful in his own company that the thought of anyone on the inside being the source of betrayal to him is ludicrous. Annabeth mentally rolls her eyes. Makes her job easier, she supposes.

Lana scans her own id card at one of the doors labeled B351a and directs them inside, smiling pleasantly at the people inside. When the lab employees catch sight of Annabeth in Lana's shadow, they settle back into their work, recognizing that their supervisor isn't here for a surprise evaluation, but simply a tour. Annabeth keeps her eyes wide and curious as she drinks in all the projects on display.

Despite Lana’s promise to minimize the flow of information, she picks back up again, going into heavy detail about the revolutionary hearing aid the engineers in this particular lab have been developing. The numbers she spouts are quite impressive, and Annabeth doesn’t even have to fake her surprise. She hadn’t known about this side of LexCorp.

"Why didn't you bring these projects up to the board?" Annabeth asks once they've returned to the main hallway, "Those implants could really make a difference to a lot of people."

Lana’s face pinches in the way that Annabeth’s come to notice means that she’s unhappy but not willing or able to articulate why.

“Projects like those don’t really generate a lot of revenue. They’re expensive to make and logically speaking, we won’t sell enough units to make largescale development financially worthwhile,” she explains.

Annabeth can tell they’re not her words.

“That’s why we focus on the big things,” Lana continues, “Government contracts, projects that make the media go crazy, you know the type. Speaking of…”

She watches in anticipation as the woman scans into another lab, SS02. Annabeth slides her fingers down to smooth her jacket, pausing at the carefully concealed bump in her left pocket.

“The Sky Sentry,” Annabeth breathes.

It's the big project that the office has been buzzing about for the last few days. The brand new, revolutionary, missile-deterring technology that LexCorp is planning to sell to the government, that's capable of knocking out the guidance system of any moving projectile.

Lana nods proudly.

The machine itself isn’t in the room, and Annabeth assumes that it is locked away in SS01 being prepped for its big unveiling on Thursday. There are blueprints, however, large and plastered across the wall, scribbled and scratched over. Along the left side of the room, there are a few compact servers, audibly whirring away, and an enormous computer monitor with a man typing away at the keyboard.

“This is where the bulk of the Sentry’s code is held,” Lana gestures to the servers, “And this is Garett Prescott, chief programmer.”

The man swivels around in his chair at the sound of his name and stands, holding his hand out to Annabeth.

"Nice to meet you, Miss Chase," he greets, a blank smile on his face.

“You too, Mr. Prescott. Are you still preparing for the demo?” Annabeth asks, out of politeness, like she doesn’t already have the schedule memorized.

At first, Annabeth had been livid on Lana's behalf when Luthor had rudely taken over the demonstration of the Sky Sentry, the project that Lana had developed, and overseen from start to finish. But then it had presented her with an opportunity that Annabeth couldn't just not take advantage of. It’s beginning to seem like every time Luthor opens his big ugly mouth, he drops a gift box directly into Annabeth’s lap and all she has to do is tear open the wrapping.

“Some last-minute testing for bugs,” Prescott nods, pale eyes flitting back to the screen, “Only a precaution, the Sentry’s pretty much good to go.”

Annabeth nods thoughtfully and very discretely glances at her watch. Should be any second now…

Lana’s phone buzzes intermittently, and the woman brings it up to her ear. Annabeth can hear a voice chattering rapidly on the other end. Lana places her palm over the speaker.

"Sorry, I have to take this," she informs them, "Garett, could you walk Annabeth through some of the early blueprints, I think she’ll enjoy that.”

Sending her a quick smile, Lana slips out the door, and back into the hallway, leaving Annabeth alone with the man. As soon as her supervisor is out of sight, Prescott’s face seems to lose some of its blandness. He takes a few steps over to the planning wall, but Annabeth keeps her distance, choosing to stand near the servers.

“Back when we first started developing the Sentry, it was actually supposed to be a tracking device, but then I came up with the idea of giving it interference capabilities," Prescott lectures, tone turning boastful as he gestures across the blueprint.

Annabeth slips her hand into her pocket.

“I thought Lana was the one who suggested incorporating the magnetic beam technology," she points out, frowning.

Prescott scowls immediately, and it rings early warning bells in her head.

“Like she even knows what she’s talking about,” Prescott mutters, turning his back to her.

Annabeth's fingers close around the flash drive. With a quick glance backward, she slides it into the main server, and shifts to position her body directly in front.

“As chief technology officer, I would assume she does.”

When Prescott turns back around, his polite façade has fully dropped, and he scoffs.

“Pretty faces,” he says, disdainfully, “That’s all any of you are good for.”

And Annabeth wishes she could even be slightly surprised at the quick change of demeanor, but unfortunately, she’s not. She had picked up on his ego the minute she had shaken his hand, and it seems like the second his boss is absent, he was willing to display it. What did it say that even monsters manage to conceal their true nature better than the men she’s met at LexCorp so far?

At least now she doesn’t have to feel the slightest bit guilty for what she’s about to do.

Prescott takes a step towards her, and Annabeth tenses, prepared for anything, but at that exact moment, Lana enters the lab again. He stops and schools his face.

“Sorry, Annabeth, looks like we’re going to have to cut this tour short, I’m needed back on my floor,” Lana frowns, apologetic, but Annabeth thinks the timing is perfect.

When Lana glances over at Prescott to tell him that she’ll be back later for an update, Annabeth reaches behind her and pulls the flash drive out, subtly tucking it back into her jacket pocket. She falls in step behind Lana, and right before the lab door closes, she shoots Prescott an unreadable stare.

At the end of a meeting on Tuesday afternoon, Annabeth stays behind to chat with one of the more talkative project managers. Deliberately taking longer than usual to sort through her documents and pack up, Annabeth starts the conversation.

“I hear the Sky Sentry is supposed to be LexCorp’s next pride and joy,” she comments, “I’m really grateful Ms. Lang is letting me attend the demonstration.”

The man’s eyes light up at the compliment—Annabeth knows his team was responsible for perfecting the magnetic beam technology—and he pauses in gathering his own papers.

“Yes, it’s all very exciting. To see almost a year and a half's worth of work come to fruition…” he trails off, nodding proudly.

“Who else is coming to the demo?”

“Just department heads and military generals,” he says, “You’re very lucky to be included, Miss Chase.”

“No press?” Annabeth asks innocently.

The project manager makes a small noise of confusion.

“I would’ve expected Mr. Luthor to have reporters there," Annabeth continues like she's talking more to herself than him, "To show everyone what the Sentry is capable of, even if we're selling it to the government."

“Oh, well—that’s—yes, the press will be there,” he stumbles through the declaration.

Annabeth knows he’s going to take the idea directly to Luthor and claim it as his own. After all, he’s the man who she went to when she wanted to become Lana’s intern, and he’s so wonderfully predictive.

Thursday is unusually chillier than most summer mornings. Annabeth keeps her blazer on and buttoned, as she follows Lana around to greet the military. The generals are dressed in their best uniforms, army green, and ironed to perfection. Their carefully buzzed scalps peek out just barely from under the hats that declare their rank. Annabeth glances over to the other side of the room where the reporters and their cameramen are all huddled around each other.

Although Luthor's office resides on the penthouse floor, there's another section of the building, for events such as these, that rests at the topmost part of the LexCorp tower. The ceiling above her is tall and shaped like a dome, made of slabs of metal that are separated by dark lines. Several rows of chairs line the room, a walkway cutting through the center, and before them is an elevated platform with a podium.

At precisely nine o clock, a spotlight audibly clicks on, shining down on the podium. Everyone spurs into action, quickly taking their seats. Military generals on the front left side, reporters on the right. Annabeth and the high-ranking department heads sit towards the back.

Lex Luthor himself walks onto the stage with a slow, controlled gait. When he positions himself behind the microphone, before he even says a word, he claps his hands twice. The crisp sound echoes throughout the room before it is drowned out by a much louder one.

Annabeth looks up and watches as the ceiling opens itself to the sky, folding in on the dark lines between the metal. The reporters chatter excitedly and point their cameras at the moving parts. Surveying them, she catches sight of a head of dark and perfectly coiffed hair and allows herself to fully settle in her seat.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Luthor announces, and every head swivels back to him, “Thank you for joining me on this beautiful summer morning. As I speak, two sidewinder missiles are being fired toward this very building."

Several military officers stand with angry shouts. The reporters all gasp, horrified, and the ones with better functioning self-preservation skills—which is not many, Annabeth observes dryly—jump out of their seats and try to make a break for the exit. Unfortunately, the doors to the elevators are sealed shut.

From beside Annabeth, Lana tenses, hard.

“What is he doing?” the woman hisses, angry and scared to Hades.

Annabeth watches the dark-haired man from before share a few words with a fellow reporter.

“Quiet please,” Luthor speaks into the microphone, an absolutely hideous smirk on his face, “The missiles will never make it here, thanks to…”

He gestures behind him. The floor of the stage opens, and a large machine rises into view, sleek and grey like everything else Luthor makes. Two large prongs extend from the front, with a circular sensor between them. Garett Prescott sits in a chair at the top of the machine, in a distinctly scientific white lab coat.

“…This. The LexCorp Sky Sentry.”

Annabeth has to fight to hold in her smile. She had an inkling that Luthor would try something like this. Based on everything she has researched and learned about him, she had known he would have something up his sleeve the minute he took the demo away from Lana. It’s too bad for him that Annabeth has already accounted for it all.

“Its high energy magnetic beam is designed to knock out the guidance system of any incoming missile,” Luthor explains, and a few people calm down.

A majority, however, remain skeptical and more than a little nervous.

The large screen behind Luthor beeps out a warning sound, and two flashing red dots become visible, moving steadily toward the tower.

“Activate,” Luthor commands, looking at Prescott.

The engineer types rapidly into the Sentry’s control system and turns a switch. The motor inside the machine whirrs, as the twin prongs light up, a bright light building.

And then the Sentry powers down.

Panic flashes across Luthor’s face and disappears so quickly that if Annabeth wasn’t watching for it, she would’ve thought she imagined it. Rage replaces his expression instead.

“I said, activate,” he growls at Prescott.

Unlike Luthor, the terror on Prescott’s face is as clear as day. He fumbles, pressing the buttons for all the contingencies he can think of, but nothing gets the Sentry working again.

“It’s not responding, sir,” he calls out shakily, face paling, “The field setting’s been reprogrammed.”

Annabeth looks over to Lana, her face taking on an expression of fear.

“Is this supposed to happen?” she asks, voice trembling.

Lana shakes her head, mute, and stands up, but freezes like she’s unsure of what to do next.

If people were scared when Luthor first announced the missiles, the group now was in complete chaos. Military generals shouting into their phones, trying to inform their higher-ups of the situation, LexCorp employees trying to open up the elevators, and reporters looking up into the sky to spot the missiles, with their cameras still rolling.

“That’s impossible!” Luthor yells, pulling Prescott off the machine by the collar of his coat to get a better look at the screen.

Annabeth surveys the scene she has carefully constructed, pulse racing. After what feels like a few seconds too long, she realizes that she cannot see the dark-haired reporter anymore.

Annabeth relaxes again.

The missiles come into view on the horizon, tiny pinpricks at first, but they steadily get bigger and bigger. The demo attendees around her scream in terror, and Annabeth contorts her face to join them, never tearing her eyes away.

Three, two… she counts, as the projectiles get closer and closer.

At one, a figure in red and blue shoots across the sky, getting under one of the missiles and pushing upwards. Superman repeats the motion with the second, and both of the deadly projectiles pass harmlessly over the top of the tower, close enough, however, for Annabeth to see the metal grating on their undersides. They pass over the crowd and directly into the harbor at the edge of Metropolis, far out enough for the resulting detonation to settle before the waves hit the shore.

“Get it offline and store it in sector six,” Luthor mutters angrily, and storms off while everyone is still occupied watching the explosion and calming their racing hearts.

It doesn’t take long for people to notice that he’s gone and even less time for them to start demanding answers, shouting at the remaining employees to explain themselves. Among all the confusion, Annabeth locks eyes with Lana and gives her a look. Lana understands immediately, steeling herself as she takes the stage and grabs the microphone.

"I'd like to offer my deepest apologies for what has just occurred,” she starts off, gaining traction as she continues, “Our equipment had been tested several times. This was not supposed to happen and as such, we will conduct an extremely thorough investigation of this incident. In any case, LexCorp should not have put your lives in danger in this manner and the company will take full responsibility.”

Although much of the outright anger dissipates, the apology satisfies few, and as Lana walks off the podium, reports and military generals alike all call out for Luthor’s blood.

Lana ignores them all, unable to provide them with what they want, and steers Annabeth off the roof.

Hours later, Annabeth slinks into the break room on her floor to make some tea and gather some information. As she pulls the tea bag in and out of the boiling water, as if that helps it steep better, a few employees join her, forming a line in front of the coffee machine.

“You were at the demo today, weren’t you?” a woman asks, eyes wide.

“Yeah, it was scary,” Annabeth shivers, “I really thought I was going to die.”

The others nod sympathetically.

Annabeth has feared for her life many, many times, and somewhere in her mind, she has a list. This incident, however, doesn't even make the top twenty.

“I heard they caught the guy responsible,” a guy whispers, and Annabeth’s ears twitch.

Already?

“That engineer, something Prescott, they say he messed with the programming right before the demo.”

“I heard it was because he didn’t get recognition for his work.”

“The Sentry was largely Ms. Lang’s idea, so why would he?” Annabeth points out.

The employees raise their eyebrows and scoff at the absurdity of it all.

“He must be delusional, then,” someone says, shaking their head, “To put everyone’s life at risk like that.”

The rest of them nod their agreement but quiet down when a manager pops in to grab something from the fridge.

“But also, maybe, it wasn’t the best idea to fire missiles at your own building,” Annabeth drops casually, once the manager leaves.

The employees want to agree with her, she can tell, but they share hesitant expressions and turn back to their own devices.

By the time the weekend rolls around, Annabeth has finally started to get a handle on her schedule. When she goes grocery shopping, when she does her laundry, when she works out, when she researches Luthor's heinous past; it’s all starting to come together.

That is, until, Percy visits and completely wrecks her carefully planned-out Saturday.

He barges into her apartment with a spare key, arms full of leftovers from Sally, and demands they visit the summer carnival or else he’ll flood her bathroom.

Annabeth has missed him so much.

“So,” Percy says, tearing off a piece of blue cotton candy, “How’s the big bald baddie? No, wait, I meant big bad baldy.”

She snickers at the descriptions, both of them.

“He fired a missile at us on Thursday,” she informs her boyfriend.

"What?" Percy demands, said boyfriend choking on melting sugar.

“Two, actually.”

Annabeth takes a long sip of soda and enjoys the fury on his face, before fully explaining what had happened, deliberately leaving out the part she played. She and Percy don’t keep secrets from each other, but she’s too careful to tell him out in the open like this. At the end of her story, Percy closes his eyes in exasperation.

“And my mom thinks I’m the one that she needs to worry about leaving unattended,” he huffs, and then looks closely at Annabeth, “You’re okay though?”

The concern warms her heart, like it always does, and she nods away his worry.

“I’ve got it under control.”

And that sentence, make Percy whip his head back over to her.

“Piper mentioned that you might be scheming,” he accuses, now knowing that she’s leaving out important details, “You are, aren’t you?”

“Tattletale,” Annabeth laughs softly, smiling.

She laces her hand in Percy’s and drags them both over to one of the game booths. Like a scene out of a cliché movie, Annabeth asks to play a round, raising the toy gun and rapidly picking off the targets one by one without a second thought. The man behind the counter sighs, muttering something about freak teenagers, and gestures to the row of prizes.

The smile on Percy’s face when she hands him the stuffed starfish could bring armies to their knees, she thinks.

Later, after they’ve just gotten off their third consecutive ride on the main coaster, Percy turns to her, frowning like he’s just realized something concerning.

“What if Superman hadn’t known what was happening?”

“Oh, he did,” Annabeth grins, switching over to Greek because she knows what the hero is capable of, “He definitely did.”

Let it be known that while working at LexCorp is boring, there are always things to get done. This week, the entire office is bustling around, completing last-minute reviews and sales pitches for the new planes that the company has just finished building. The two fully revamped jets for commercial use that are being handed over to Jada Airlines at the end of the week. As such, the office is back in business. It’s almost as if last week’s Sky Sentry fiasco never even happened.

Annabeth knows better, however. She sees the reports piling up on Lana’s desk every time she goes into her office. The woman is actually handling it well, despite the media slander and the fact that the government contracts had fallen through. Since Luthor had been the face of the demonstration and much of the blame had fallen on him, Lana wasn’t being treated with the same hatred when she reached out to pacify the public. She wasn’t excusing her own mess, she was graciously cleaning up someone else’s, and that made all the difference.

A little before lunchtime, Annabeth pops into Lana’s office once again and tells her that she’s completed the progress reports on the teams she had been assigned at the beginning of the week.

Lana stares at her.

“It’s Tuesday, Annabeth.”

Annabeth mentally winces. Maybe she could’ve taken an extra day. Outwardly, however, she looks perfectly sheepish, and Lana sighs, rifling through the stack of papers to her right.

“Here,” she holds a stapled bundle out to Annabeth, “Safety reports for the new planes. You’re welcome to look through them, but technically they’re restricted to senior managers and above so keep that to yourself. I’m a little swamped for the rest of the day, but I can get you another assignment tomorrow.”

Annabeth nods, thanking her, and hurries back to her own desk. As she flips through the report, she’s not surprised to see everything in pristine condition. The materials used for construction, the results of the various hazard tests, and every single commercial airline compliance that’s been met, it’s all there and with perfect scores.

Which, naturally, means something has to be wrong.

It’s a good thing that Annabeth doesn’t actually have any work to do for the rest of the day. She takes an early lunch, holing up at a café a few blocks away, and pulls out her personal laptop, delta symbol gleaming in the sun. Resting her translation glasses in her hair because finally, she’s reading real, honest to gods ancient Greek, Annabeth looks up the company responsible for conducting the safety reports.

Two and a half hours later, she returns to the office, head positively swirling with newfound knowledge, and nobody has even noticed that she’s taken the longest lunch known to man.

On Thursday, the clock barely strikes noon, when Annabeth packs up her belongings. She stuffs her work laptop next to her personal one and wraps up the charger cord and important documents. She grabs her lunchbox from the break room fridge and places it neatly at the bottom of her backpack, directly on top of her invisibility cap.

With the backpack slung over her shoulder, she knocks on Lana’s door and waits for permission to enter. Her supervisor takes note of her state and raises her eyebrows.

“Could I leave early today?” Annabeth asks, “I have a personal matter to attend to, and I’ve already finished my work.”

“Even what I gave you on Tuesday?” Lana then visibly waves off her own question, “Don’t answer that, of course you have. Yes, you may go. See you tomorrow, Annabeth.”

When the elevator doors open on her floor on Friday morning, the office is in complete and utter disarray.

Annabeth blinks.

She walks through the chaos like everything's in slow motion. Employees are running around, desk to desk, there's paper plastered all over the ground, previously important documents now forgotten and trampled over, and the worst of it all, the office landlines won't stop ringing but there's no one free to answer the phones.

She pulls aside a woman she knows from many lunches spent in the break room.

“What’s going on?” Annabeth whispers, dropping her jaw slightly at the sight of a man screaming into a phone receiver before slamming it back down.

“One of the planes exploded. Jada Airways is supposed to get custody in a few hours and one of their planes just exploded in the hangar,” the woman moans in despair before whirling away to attend to a, hopefully metaphorical, fire.

Annabeth flags down Lana as her supervisor makes her way through the floor.

“Lana, what—”

Lana holds a hand up, effectively silencing Annabeth’s question.

“Why don’t you just go home for the weekend?” she suggests, looking desperate, “Honestly, we’re a complete mess right now and I don’t think you’ll be able to do anything productive.”

And she’s right. In much nicer words, she’s telling her that she’ll just get in the way, and Annabeth isn’t even offended because she knows Lana’s right. There’s nothing for her to do here at the moment.

Lana’s expression relaxes by a fraction as she takes in Annabeth’s understanding nod but tenses up again after she reads the message she’s just received on her phone. Lana groans and stalks back into her office, leaving Annabeth standing amidst the slowly devolving workplace.

Looks like Luthor’s lack of proper safety measures has finally caught up with him. After all the costs cut on proper, study equipment, and all the bribes and payoffs to keep the safety report spotless, there was always a chance, no matter how small, that something was going to go wrong, Annabeth reasons, smiling, as she walks out of LexCorp’s large glass doors and onto the city streets.

All she did was give it a little push.

Chapter Text

Annabeth is a New York city girl through and through, but she has to give credit to Metropolis for its sinfully pleasant summer weather. She doesn’t often get the luxury of taking the time to simply enjoy her surroundings, so recently she’s been making the effort to wake up just a little earlier. The Annabeth that gets to slow down and savor the morning breeze before the city heats up again thanks her for it.

Still a few blocks away from the office, she pauses at a local convenience stand, sliding the man behind the counter a few bills before plucking a copy of the Daily Planet out of a bin. Annabeth moves her glasses from her hair onto her nose bridge and the front-page headline reads clear.

SUPERMAN MOPS UP LUTHOR’S FAILED SCIENCE PROJECT

Annabeth hardly bothers to read the rest; the title alone sets the tone for the article. Instead, she skims down the columns and past an especially unfortunate picture of Luthor's face, scrunched in mid-panic, until she finds what she’s looking for in tiny, bolded letters.

By Clark Kent

Annabeth smiles in amusement, rolls up the newspaper, tucks it into her backpack, and resumes her commute to work.

Twelve-thirty is the time of day that the break room traffic reaches its peak, Annabeth has come to notice. Taking advantage of the brief window of opportunity where everyone piles in to grab their lunches, Annabeth uses the crowd as cover from the camera to slip her copy of the Daily Planet behind the microwave. After making sure it peeks out just enough, she returns to her desk and pops open her tupperware.

Annabeth had known from the early stages of development that her plan would involve Superman, that the alien hero would provide her both the cover and leeway to manipulate Luthor as she pleased without any lasting consequences. Getting Superman to participate unknowingly would have required careful maneuvering had Annabeth not made a major discovery that simplified everything.

She had begun her research with the Daily Planet, the first and most popular information source for all things Superman, combing through all the articles and videos she could find, starting from the very earliest issues. The first few pieces had proved unfruitful, written by different authors, and containing no interviews or first-person accounts, just regurgitated speculation on Superman's origins, powers, and earliest criminal takedowns.

In the next few issues, every article on the hero seemed to be written by a woman named Lois Lane and was much more personal than any of the previous ones. Lane's third article was the first to ever feature a direct quote from Superman himself. And, as Annabeth continued to read, Lane’s tone slowly transformed into something a tad softer, fonder even. Annabeth could’ve dismissed it as the result of one too many one-on-one interviews or hero worship, but then, she found something interesting.

Lane began to shrug off the Superman liaison responsibility to a new reporter, Clark Kent, not long after he joined the Daily Planet. In fact, his first article on the hero thwarting a killer gorilla attack made the front page mere weeks after his first day at work. From then on, it seemed that Kent became the Daily Planet’s go-to Superman writer, with Lane making only the occasional appearance on hero topics.

And if Annabeth had thought Lane's articles were personal, Kent's were on a whole new level. While he lacked the same tone, his descriptions of Superman's adventures were so heavily detailed that either Kent had made them up for the sake of the story, or he had a front-row seat to every single one of the hero's stunts. Annabeth had to admit that some reporters really were that story hungry, but even so, it had seemed implausible.

Curious about his motivations, Annabeth had then pulled up Kent’s profile on the Daily Planet website which included a brief personal introduction and a high-definition picture. Annabeth had briefly glanced at the image before reading, but halfway through the paragraph had paused and looked back at it.

Annabeth has spent upwards of a decade perfecting her ability to see through disguises. The teacher who asked her to stay behind and discuss her paper, the young girl who skinned her knee and asked for help, the librarian who insisted on personally leading her to a book. Mortal or monster? One wrong judgment could cost her her life, so Annabeth had gotten pretty good at picking up on the details.

And sure, Kent could slump his shoulders to knock off an inch or two, wear an ill-fitting suit and a pair of tacky black-rimmed glasses, and not look the camera directly in the eye, but none of that could fool Annabeth.

In the end, Clark Kent is Superman himself and Annabeth wonders how she could have ever thought otherwise.

(In hindsight, finding out Kent and Lane are married explains so much.)

Annabeth waits patiently by the front desk, resisting the urge to tap her feet. Lana had messaged her earlier that she had left something important for her with the receptionist, but the man seems to have misplaced it. The elevator pings faintly, and a group of employees Annabeth recognizes from her floor brush by on their way out, their whispered snippets of conversation just loud enough for her to hear.

“Did you see—”

“The science project part—”

A man laughs and is promptly elbowed and hushed by another.

Annabeth turns back to the receptionist who has abandoned his quest of rifling through the small file cabinet and is pointedly avoiding her gaze as he shuffles around his desk belongings. The elevator pings again.

This time, harsh, heavy footsteps echo across the floor as Luthor storms out, nearly colliding with the exit turnstiles on the way. Annabeth smothers a snort at the sight of a stack of beige papers clenched in his left fist before he disappears through the glass doors, bodyguards trailing behind him.

She turns around again, just in time to see the receptionist triumphantly pull an envelope out from under his keyboard and hand it to her with a sheepish smile.

In the comfort of her home, Annabeth props her feet up on a nearby chair and carefully breaks apart the wax seal. A thick piece of lavender cardstock slides out, the contents of which are no surprise. It’s been on her calendar for weeks.

The envelope contains her physical invitation and entrance pass to LexCorp’s charity gala, a party to fundraise for Luthor Hospital's new state-of-the-art children's wing. If she disregards the fact that Luthor could simply provide all the money needed by dipping into his personal accounts, the gala is actually a very important event, both for Luthor and for her.

Annabeth fidgets with the corners of the invitation for a few minutes, thinking, before casting a drachma into the light of the setting sun.

“I need you to make me something.”

"No 'hi', 'hello,' 'how're you doing, Leo?' Just straight to business, huh?" Leo Valdez mutters, turning around to face the iris message, but his smile betrays his words.

Annabeth’s apology comes in the form of giving him something new to build.

The son of Hephaestus raises his brows.

“I doubt you’d need me for that,” he points out.

“I need it discreet, practically invisible, and made without any godly materials,” she clarifies.

“Invisible and mortal safe?” Leo rubs his chin, “Now that’s tricky. Can I ask what it’s for?”

“No.”

Then Annabeth shoots him a vicious grin.

“But if you really want to know, turn on the news in two months.”

Leo blinks.

“That’s…suspicious and vaguely threatening,” he says, hesitant at first, “I’ll have it delivered by Thursday.”

One hour before she's scheduled to meet Lana at the entrance, Annabeth slips on her blue-grey dress, and pins her curls up and away from her face. She tucks her invitation, bronze knife, sewing tin, and other essentials into her purse and mentally goes over her plan once more, before deeming herself ready for battle.

Barely thirty minutes into the party, Annabeth is already itching to leave. She’s been hovering by Lana’s side the entire time, being occasionally introduced to the other woman’s conversation partners. Annabeth reminds herself to relax. She has work to do and it’s not Lana’s fault that all the people at the gala are dreadfully boring.

Her relief arrives when she notices her manager tense imperceptibly.

“Lana,” a deep voice calls out.

Lana gives the man and another woman beside him a slightly strained smile.

“Annabeth, I’d like to introduce you to Clark Kent and Lois Lane, from the Daily Planet,” Lana says, “And this is my new intern, Annabeth Chase.”

Annabeth isn't sure why the woman is using her as a social crutch, but perks up anyways, smiling good-naturedly at the pair of newcomers.

Kent towers a few inches above her, and several more over Lana, wearing a slightly rumpled black suit that Annabeth has no doubt is on purpose. He adjusts the frames of his glasses which dim the bright blue of his eyes. Lane, on the other hand, is slightly shorter than Annabeth, with sleek dark hair and a look in her pale eyes that seems to say, Try me.

“Oh, yes, I think I saw you at the demonstration!” Annabeth pretends to remember, “That was really scary, I’m glad Superman was somehow there to save the day.”

She has no good reason to include the second half of her statement, other than the amusement of seeing Clark Kent squirm uncomfortably.

“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Chase. You’re in good hands, I’ve known Lana since we were children,” Kent explains, in a polite, almost hesitant voice that clashes with his alter ego.

“Yeah, it’s a shame that she works for Luthor,” Lane speaks, for the first time.

The implication of that statement registers the second it hits Annabeth’s ears and she mentally winces. Lana’s childhood crush is Superman, and now she works for his nemesis. What a ridiculously small world.

“LexCorp actually does some good work, Lois,” Lana says, eyes hardening.

“Then why don’t we ever hear about it?” Lane retorts.

Annabeth watches Kent shuffle awkwardly, not knowing how to interfere.

Lane isn’t being mean on purpose. Annabeth guesses that she just can’t reel in her reporter instincts that say getting a rise out of your subject is the surefire way to get them to divulge some juicy information. Annabeth has to respect the dedication.

Without warning, Lex Luthor, the man himself, inserts himself into their group and breaks the previous tension by causing everyone to tense up because of him. He reaches out and vigorously shakes Kent’s hand with much more force than necessary.

“Nice to see you again, Kent,” he says, but looks to the side and winks, “You too, Lois.”

Lane’s face folds into outright disgust, while Kent clenches his jaw but does nothing else. Annabeth, once again, goes ignored.

“Nice article,” Luthor continues, finally looking at Kent, “Even if much of it was puffed up personal opinion.”

A flash of something positively murderous finds itself across Luthor’s face before it’s gone in an instant. But Annabeth sees it, and she knows Kent sees it, and a terrible thought dawns on her.

Lex Luthor knows Clark Kent is Superman.

It takes every single muscle in her body to force Annabeth’s face to remain pleasant and neutral, but she must, especially in the presence of both Superman and Luthor, stay calm, so she takes that mind-blowing piece of information, stuffs it into a tiny box and continues participating in the conversation.

“I’m sorry you felt that way, Mr. Luthor,” Kent replies professionally, even as Lane continues to glare at the man from beside him.

Lana taps Annabeth discreetly and advises her to grab some food before they take it away in preparation for the speeches. Annabeth gratefully accepts the out and leaves to wait in the line.

As she grabs a plate and slowly shuffles forward Annabeth's mind whirls. Lex Luthor knows that Clark Kent is Superman. And if he knows, why hasn't he used that information? As far as she knows, Superman has no weakness, but hypothetically, Clark Kent has many more. Compared to an indestructible alien superhero, Kent is nothing but a man, a reporter barely known outside of Metropolis so why…

Annabeth pauses.

Oh.

That’s exactly why.

Luthor won’t touch Kent, because Kent is so far beneath Luthor’s wealth and power and intellect that any fight between the two is simply not worth it to him. If Luthor is going to prove himself to be the best, to be a god, he needs to beat a god. Not some random reporter. So obviously he doesn’t go after Kent, he goes after Superman, because to Luthor, that’s the battle that matters, the battle that feeds his ego, that’s…

Annabeth pauses again.

That’s something she can use.

But first, before she can let her mind run with this newfound realization, she has something she needs to do.

Annabeth steps out of the food line, dropping her plate off with a nearby waiter.

When LexCorp was building the planes for Jada Airlines, Luthor bribed the safety analysis company for the reports to come back clean to greenlight production. Annabeth knows this for a fact, but the reason how she knows this is that she used Daedalus’s computer to illegally access the financials of the safety company’s directors. Unfortunately, this evidence won’t hold up. For one, the safety company could outright deny it and a warrant would be dismissed for lack of probable cause. And second, Luthor is tricky. She needs evidence he can’t weasel his way out of. She needs something more concrete.

Glancing around her for witnesses, Annabeth slips into the coat room and searches the racks for the jacket she had seen Luthor wear earlier. In a sea of nearly identical suits, Annabeth thanks Luthor’s desire to be the best because it makes finding his coat infinitely easier.

She reaches into her purse and snaps open the sewing tin, pulling out a thin wire pre-threaded through the eye of a sharp metal needle. Annabeth grabs the lapel, holds it open, and carefully weaves Leo's creation into the inside lining of Luthor's jacket. She goes slowly, making sure to follow the existing stitches precisely.

Finally, after a few painstakingly long minutes, she tucks the last inch inside the fabric and smooths everything down. She finishes hiding the needle away in her purse just as someone lunges out from behind another rack and brings a metal baton down on her wrist, audibly snapping it. He wraps an arm around her collarbone to keep her in place and fumbles through his pockets for something.

Annabeth doesn’t scream. She can’t scream.

She can’t take the chance that it catches Superman’s attention and ruins weeks of meticulously planned acts, so she refuses to make a sound. She’s heard rumors that the man has his super hearing calibrated specifically for danger and shows up to save the day at the sound of a crying kitten. She has to pretend that nothing is wrong.

Instead, Annabeth swallows the blood in her mouth from biting down in pain. Setting her jaw tightly in place, she shoots her head straight up, ramming her skull into her attacker’s chin before he can report an intruder into his radio. Her uninjured hand jerks out immediately to clamp around his mouth, silencing the man’s groan.

It’s horrifically painful, but Annabeth snaps the fingers on her broken wrist. The air around them thickens, something tangible brushing past her ear to wrap around the back of the man’s head.

She feels his mouth stop struggling behind her grip.

“You never saw me,” she whispers, condensing the mist tightly around his face, “You tripped and hit your chin on the counter.”

Annabeth doesn’t let the mist dissipate until the man’s eyes are successfully clouded over. When she does release him, she scrambles past the rows of coats, cradling her wrist and shoving the door open with her shoulder. Behind her, the man stands, blinking in confusion as he rubs the bruise under his jaw.

With all the guests busy finding their seats for the speech, the bathroom is empty when Annabeth bursts into it. She tears the ziplock bag from her purse open with her teeth and shoves ambrosia down her throat all while blinking back unwanted tears.

It takes a second for the godly food to take effect, but once it does, she feels the bone and muscle stitch back together. After a few minutes, she’s able to roll out her wrist and feel only faint soreness. Wetting a napkin, she dabs away the blood at the corner of her mouth.

Her hair is a mess, she notices in the mirror. Her usual curls are frizzy at the top of her head, and she has to pull out her elastic to redo the bun.

Annabeth doesn’t expect anyone to walk into the bathroom, much less a reporter who is likely missing prime quotes, but someone does, walking up next to her. There’s an entire sink between their bodies, so Annabeth simply continues to rework her updo.

“You’re Miss Chase, right? Luthor’s intern?”

The woman pulls out a tube of lipstick, dabbing it gently at her mouth. Annabeth pries apart a bobby pin and flicks one of her curls back, pinning it against the side of her head.

The woman continues without waiting for a response, “I’m Lois Lane, but just Lois is fine. I’m a reporter from the Daily Planet. We met earlier, with my colleague, Clark Kent.”

Annabeth has to stop herself from snorting. What was up with Superman and women with first and last names starting with ‘L’?

“Anyways, Lana was talking a bit about you after you left. It’s a really great achievement. I didn’t think Luthor let his interns come to events like these.”

“Thank you, the experience so far has definitely been…interesting,” Annabeth huffs out a small laugh.

“I wish you luck, Miss Chase. I’d say LexCorp isn’t usually like this, but then I’d be lying,” Lois grins sharply, splitting her newly refreshed red lips.

“We’ll see,” Annabeth hums, but doesn’t say more.

Lois tilts her head, interested and definitely on the verge of asking another question, but Annabeth straightens her back and snaps her purse closed.

“It was nice properly meeting you, Lois,” Annabeth says, running her newly healed hand over the top of her head as a last-minute check, “And, I’m Lana’s intern, not Mr. Luthor’s.”

As soon as she’s released from the torture that is Luthor’s shallow fundraising speech for the children, Annabeth goes straight home and opens up her laptop. All it takes is her plugging in a set of headphones and dancing her fingers over a few keys before Luthor’s voice filters in through the bug Annabeth had left in his jacket.

He’s on the phone, and although she can only hear one side of the conversation, it’s plenty incriminating.

Annabeth smiles.

Got you.

The following Thursday is the scheduled board meeting that everyone has been dreading. Everyone but Annabeth, who manages to keep that feeling under wraps.

Attendance goes by faster than last time, with everyone eager to address and, hopefully, quickly move on from the multiple elephants in the room. Bauer, the director of the board, wastes no time in bringing them up.

“Mr. Luthor,” he all but demands, "Could you shed any light on our current situation?"

"Upon investigation, the Sky Sentry was sabotaged by one of our engineers. Since then, he has been fired and dealt with and we will be taking measures to ensure nothing of the sort will happen again. To address your second concern, one of the planes underwent a freak mechanical failure, the cause of which we are still in the process of determining. We have a safety team dissecting the aircraft as we speak."

It does not escape Annabeth how even now, Luthor takes no responsibility for either incident. A few of the other board members also seem to notice, but Bauer continues before anyone can bring it up.

“In any case, LexCorp has taken a major financial hit and as a result, I think the decision is unanimous that we will not be going through Mr. Heyeck’s remodeling plan, yes?”

A chorus of yeses and nods circle the table, and Heyeck looks disappointed, but not at all surprised.

“We do, however,” Bauer continues, “Have much to do to make up the loss.”

Lana clears her throat.

“I have proposals for a few lower stake projects in development. As they are not high profile, they will not be enough to fully recover our losses, but since these projects contribute to bettering quality of life, they will bring us back in the media's good graces,” she reports, passing a few folders around for viewing.

Annabeth opens one to find the mockups of the hearing aids she saw in the labs.

“Lana has been doing a good job at handling media fallout so far,” Flores, another board member contemplates, rifling through another project, “I motion that we go through with her plan.”

“I second that motion,” Tran replies.

When the votes among the seven members are tallied up, the result is 4 to 3 in favor of Lana’s plan with, as Annabeth expected, Bauer being the swaying vote. She glances over to Luthor, his mouth downturned in a sour and angry frown, but it goes largely ignored by the rest of the room.

After another twenty minutes of other housekeeping decisions, the board meeting breaks. Luthor, as always, is the first to leave. Except this time, it feels less like a threatening exit and more like a march of defeat, even if Annabeth is the only one to discern the difference.

Annabeth waits as Lana stays behind to walk through the rest of her projects to the few directors who had deemed it an interesting topic.

"These are great ideas, Ms. Lang," Tran sighs, "It's a shame we aren't able to provide them with more thorough funding. I'd imagine they would incite an exceptionally well public reception if we weren’t using them as a makeshift band-aid.”

“Thank you,” Lana smiles wryly, “Either way, I’m happy for any opportunity to make them accessible, even if that’s in the wake of exploding aircraft.”

Bauer chuckles, something Annabeth guesses is rare from the man given everyone’s reaction to it.

"And the second plane?" he asks, "I'd assume Jada Airlines does not want it but is it intact?"

“The team is inspecting that one as well, in case any similar oversight puts it at risk,” Lana explains.

“The safety report was sparkling clean, it’s hard to imagine what could have gone wrong,” Annabeth frowns, snatching the opportunity she’s been waiting for, “But if the same team is conducting the investigation, I imagine they will develop an equally thorough account of any mechanical failures.”

Bauer stills, as Flores and Tran send him equally alarmed looks.

Annabeth sucks in her breath and bites her lip to keep herself from smiling.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I know I wasn't supposed to see that safety report, but I promise I didn't show anybody, and I gave it back as soon as I finished reading it. Am I in trouble?"

Lana places her hand comfortingly on Annabeth’s shoulder, assuring her that it’s no big deal, and guides her to the elevator, but not before turning back at the board members with a look that promised further discussion.

The ride down to ground level is silent, Lana typing furiously away at her phone, giving Annabeth time to think.

With her invisibility cap, sneaking into the hangar for access to the plane was child’s play. And she hadn’t even had to worry about leaving incriminating evidence behind because to admit it was an act of sabotage in a report meant admitting that the plane wasn’t built to standard in the first place. Something, she knows, Luthor would never admit to.

With the board having already taken her bait, Annabeth wonders how long before they look into the safety company themselves. Glancing at Lana, whose phone screen already has the report pulled up, Annabeth feels satisfaction creep up her spine. Not long at all, it seems.

Chapter Text

Annabeth’s last hour and a half of work on Friday is comparable to, well, definitely not hell, but perhaps something just a few notches below. In the last twenty minutes, she checks the clock no less than thirty-four times and scrolls through several meters of documents she’s already read thrice over. When the clock finally strikes five pm, Annabeth is already in the elevator, fingers tapping impatiently against the opposite arm, and waiting for the familiar ding signaling the lobby floor. Hardly one to waste time, she switches shoes as she descends, heels for a more comfortable pair of sneakers. At exactly five o’ six, there is not a single trace left of her in the LexCorp building.

A sense of relaxation washes over Annabeth the second her feet cross the impressively designed threshold of the Metropolis Public Library as if her body is glad to relinquish the last of any subconscious worries stored within. The smell of paper, fresh and old, and the sound of hushed whispers are things she has intimately memorized. In the same way that Percy is most himself in the sea, the library is Annabeth's domain.

Although she is weeks into her summer at Metropolis, this is the first day she’s been able to find time to sneak away to the building. Even so, she knows exactly how the library is organized, where certain genres and sections lay hidden, and lets her feet instinctively guide her to the architecture section where she piles a few odd books into her arms. She walks deeper into the building, passing by students flipping through goliath-level textbooks, elderly folk squinting at the small vertical titles, and a man who smiles at her as he re-organizes a shelf. Annabeth pauses at another section on the way to snag yet another book before continuing on.

When her feet finally come to a standstill, the door before her reads Microfilm & Microfiche Room in fading brown letters. She shifts her haul of books to one arm, pushes on the handle, and shoves the heavy wooden door with her shoulder. Instantly, a thin layer of dust enters her nostrils. The room looks, smells, and tastes like it hasn’t been opened in years, despite the empty trash can revealing that it has been cleaned recently. Annabeth marvels that it feels like she’s been taken back decades in time. The walls are a peeling beige color, and the lights overhead are minimal and manual, unlike the rest of the motion sensor-activated library. Several metal file cabinets line the walls, the kind that jam and create a racket with opened, and in the back of the room atop a creaking wooden desk sits the film reader, an enormous bulky computer setup with a flat, lit space under the monitor like a microscope. Invented back in the eighteen thirties, microfilm and microfiche had been used for mail, espionage, and information access when printing had been a labor-intensive and expensive task and was adapted for record preservation, especially for newspapers, up until the nineteen nineties.

Annabeth sets her books and backpack down on the floor and gets to work, starting at 1980 and rifling through tens and eventually hundreds of film rolls, viewing the images under the light. There are no windows in the room, making it hard to tell how much time has passed, but when her stomach begins to ache, Annabeth knows it has been several hours. The process is tedious: carefully pulling a roll out of its protective casing, positioning it under the camera, and adjusting the output until the pictures are legible on the screen, only to find nothing of interest.

A few rolls into 1993, she hits the jackpot. Local Teen Wins School Engineering Contest. Then, a few rolls later, Local Couple Found in Car Crash. The next couple of years are fruitless, but 1999 and 2000 provide Annabeth with another few usable newspaper articles before the number of film rolls fizzle out, the 21st century paving the way for computers to more easily record and store information.

Early on, Annabeth had realized that Lex Luthor had had any private or real information about him scrubbed off the internet years ago, making it difficult for her to do any worthwhile research into the man. Fortunately for her, the city library is very thorough in record keeping and fortunately for the city, Annabeth is very thorough in digging for skeletons.

She fiddles with the large clunky computer, printing out every single possibly related article she had found. After tucking the thick bundle of paper away into her backpack and gathering her books, she, at her heart’s protest and stomach’s joy, heads to the check-out counter.

The man who smiled at her earlier opens the front cover of each hardcover and scans the code.

“Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture, Green Architecture: Advanced Materials, The Basis of Modern Law,” he reads off a few of the titles as he logs them onto her account, “Productive summer?”

Annabeth’s lips quirk up.

“Something like that.”

Bright and early Saturday morning Annabeth mentally walks through her bank of questions over breakfast, ensuring that she’s prepared for all the who’s and how’s and why’s. Placing her bowl in the sink, she catches sight of the taxi through the window, idling near the entrance of the building, and rushes down to meet it. She tells the driver her destination, then settles back into her seat for the hour-long journey.

Her phone buzzes with a barrage of short texts from Percy and she snorts at his habit of sending several messages when just one or two would suffice. She opens them to see a picture of him and other familiar campers, faces glistening and tired but wearing pleased smiles, holding onto a tall blue flag.

3 and 6 dream team

missed you this time

if you were here …

we probs wouldn’t be as sweaty :)

have fun with your interrogation!

A wistful smile creeps onto Annabeth's face. Technically, it's her first summer away from camp or camp-related activities in over a decade and the feeling inside her is not exactly separation anxiety, but Annabeth knows that going back would make her feel more at ease with herself. There's plenty that she misses—training different fighting styles, going down informational rabbit holes with her siblings, sparring with Percy—but there's also plenty she's looking forward to this summer and that's enough to quell the feelings for a while. At the very least, she knows her cabin still holds the reigning championship of capture the flag.

The city skyscrapers make way for wider streets and short commercial buildings, suburban houses with freshly mowed lawns, and finally rolling fields of wild grass and towering trees. The taxi driver flicks his eyes to her through the rearview mirror as if asking her if this is really where she wants to be taken. Annabeth meets them with her own, then continues gazing out the window, partially to sightsee and partially on monster watch.

The car takes a left off the main road, tires crunching the loose gravel of the unpaved path and Annabeth knows they’ve arrived. She slips the man a hundred and asks him to wait, with the promise of pay for the time she spends. He shrugs, turning off the car and rolling down his window to light a cigarette.

The quaint little farmhouse is someone's pride and joy. Annabeth can make out several personal and well-done repairs, unique and handmade decorations like the painted glass windchimes, and a few places where chipping paint reveals a previously different color. The wide tire tracks from the main road to the left of the house indicate the presence of a large car or truck, likely in the town center, a few miles down the main road.

The door is heavy set, and when Annabeth presses the bell, it buzzes rather than rings. It’s a full minute or two before the door is slowly and carefully pried open and a woman’s face peeks through.

“Can I help you?” she asks, her expression soft, yet guarded.

Annabeth smiles kindly. “Mrs. Anderson, is it?” The woman nods. “May I come in?”

She lets the older woman take in her appearance, glance at the taxi parked a few meters down the driveway, and deem her trustworthy enough to enter her home. Annabeth follows her through the entrance hallway to the living room and waits on the sofa as the woman comes back with two glasses of water.

“How can I help you, dear? And you can call me Penny," she says, placing the glass on a knitted coaster, "You said your name was Isabel, am I pronouncing that correctly?” Annabeth nods. “Oh good, it’s just an old teacher habit of mine to ask.”

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” she says, leaning just a hair forward on the couch, “I was doing some research for a project, a biographical account of a public figure, and I saw that you taught at South Grove Middle School in the 90s. I had a couple of questions about one of your students.”

Penny sighs and takes a sip of her water. “That was a long time ago, I’m not sure I can guarantee much information. What was their name?”

“Alexander Luthor.”

Penny sucks in a breath. Annabeth can’t tell if that’s a good sign or bad.

“Lex,” she muses, “Now that one I do remember.”

“What was he like?” Annabeth coaxes her a little, leaving the question open-ended.

“Brilliant. Yes, he really was. Always knew the answers, every assignment turned in on time, breezed through examinations,” Penny’s lips turned into a slight frown, “Never raised his hand in class, though. He never wanted to share his answers, but he was always quick to correct other students if they got something wrong.”

“Did he get along well with his classmates?” Annabeth presses.

“He was a bit cruel towards the girls in the class,” Penny admits.

Annabeth's brows raise. “He hit them?”

“No, no,” Penny shakes her head quickly, “He wasn’t physical exactly, but cold, and sometimes demeaning.”

Annabeth relaxes, but the clarification does not provide her much comfort. Over thirty years later and with enough distance between him and his childhood self, nothing about Luthor's demeanor is guaranteed.

“What about the boys? Did he have any friends?” she asks.

“I think most of the other children avoided him. It was a little sad to see. I believe I may have tried at one point or another to help the kids bond, but it never worked. Lex was never really interested in friends,” Penny peers out the window, “Would he like to come inside?”

Annabeth follows her gaze to the taxi. She doesn’t want any more witnesses than necessary.

“I think he’d prefer to smoke outside,” she points out, “Are you sure there wasn’t anything else worth mentioning, any school incidents, anything about his home life?”

Penny gives her a strange look, making Annabeth tamp down the demanding tone of her voice, but answers anyways.

“I think there were two boys, in a grade or two above that might have bullied him,” Penny frowns again as if struggling to remember, “They came to school one day covered in bruises they didn’t explain and a few kids started a rumor that Lex had paid someone to beat them up? I’m not sure. It was quite a ridiculous story.”

She looks at Annabeth as if expecting her to agree and Annabeth nods along, but nothing about that story sounds fantastical.

“The school might’ve looked into it, but in the end, it didn’t matter anyways.”

Annabeth leans another fraction forward. “Why is that?”

“Lex’s parents got into a car accident not long after and passed. Poor boy, he left the school. I don’t believe I saw him again after that.”

Annabeth recalls the second article she had found on film. It had been sparse with details, mentioning only the time and place of the crash, the people involved, and a location where local community members could pay their respects.

“Did he stay with another family member?” Annabeth asks, crossing her fingers for another source of information.

“No…” Penny trails off, casting another glance to the side, “I believe the insurance agent mentioned foster care.”

Although her words are faint and spoken out the window, Annabeth’s eyes sharpen.

“Do you remember his name?” she questions, as eagerly as she can without coming off frantic.

Penny laughs. “His business card is long gone dear.”

Annabeth visibly wilts.

“But,” she pauses, “I didn’t teach for almost thirty years to be bad at names. It was Mr. Bryant. I’m sorry he didn’t give me his first.”

Annabeth grins, “That’s more than enough, Penny. Thank you for all your help.”

Penny stands up, asks her to wait, then returns with a container of yellowish cake for the taxi driver and a wish of good luck on her biographical project.

The woman reaches for the knob and holds the front door open. Before she walks through, Annabeth steels herself, snaps her fingers, and calls upon the mist to shroud the both of them.

“You received a visit from a blond man today. You talked about your teaching days and some of your students,” Annabeth speaks firmly.

It’s much easier for her to skew the details of the talk than to pretend it never happened. The mist might be a powerful force, but only certain demigods are capable of using it to its full extent, creating entire sets of new memories. For Annabeth, the smaller changes are more likely to stick, especially for non-mythological situations.

The mist latches onto her words and wraps them around Penny, whose eyes cloud over briefly with the altered information, then clear again. Annabeth walks out the door and back into the car, already pulling out her laptop to find Mr. Bryant.

Evening approaches without warning, the sun still slanting its rays onto the marble of her kitchen counter. The clock reads past eight pm and Annabeth already knows she’s not going to cook but opens the fridge anyways in a feeble attempt to scrounge up some dinner. She has vegetables and day-old rice, but the meat is still frozen, and that’s enough reason for her to leave the apartment for takeout.

Only venturing a few blocks away, she ducks inside a Thai place, its entrance hidden halfway down an alley. The food is always generous in portion and wonderfully spicy, and the store has only two doors that both ding when opened, one to the kitchen and one back out to the street. Delicious and difficult to sneak around in, it’s Annabeth’s favorite restaurant in the city so far.

This time, a man is sitting at a table, who looks up when she walks through the door. Keeping her eyes straight ahead, Annabeth softly places her order to the woman behind the register. The employee, after handing her the change, takes off into the kitchen to relay the information.

The man lets her finish before speaking up.

“Miss Chase?”

Annabeth finally looks over to who she already knew was there. He looks a little comical, hulking figure hunched over the table, too tall for his legs to fit properly.

“You can call me Annabeth, I don’t mind,” she offers.

“Clark, then,” he smiles a little clumsily.

He gestures to the spot at the table across from him and seeing that the rest of the chairs have been stacked onto the tables in preparation for closing time, Annabeth takes the seat. (She would have taken it anyways.)

“I see that you’ve found this gem,” he nods appreciatingly, “Best food in the city, in my opinion.”

“Lana recommended it to me,” Annabeth says, smiling, “A couple more visits and I think I could be a regular.”

Clark Kent’s eyes soften at that. “How is she?”

Annabeth mentally sighs. She meant for the name drop to trigger a different conversation, not one motivated by concern following a childhood friendship gone wrong. She plasters on a naïve but pleasant expression.

“She’s doing well,” Annabeth answers, fingers mindlessly tracing some small groove in the table, “There’s a lot of work to do at LexCorp, so she’s been pretty busy.”

The extra nudge proves successful when Clark pushes his glasses farther up his nose.

“Dealing with the Sky Sentry project?” he asks rhetorically, a sympathetic tone coloring his words.

“Actually, no,” Annabeth says, letting her gaze trail over to the kitchen door, “She has a lot of new technology in prosthetics that she’s readying for production.” She turns back and makes a show of putting her hand over her mouth, looking sheepish. “That’s off the record, though.”

Clark laughs and waves it off, but she can tell he’s somewhat interested. He’s not the same type of reporter Lois is, though, and Annabeth knows he won’t outright hound her for more information at an accidental meeting on a Saturday night. As much as she'd like to take credit, she hadn't known he was going to be here, but she isn't surprised by the encounter either. Lana had said she was shown to the restaurant when she first came to the city, and it hadn’t been hard to put two and two together.

“Besides the chaos with the demonstration and the Jada Airways planes, have you been enjoying your internship so far?” he asks curiously.

With anyone else, she would assume an ulterior motive behind the question, but Clark Kent is surprisingly open and honest. And despite the fact that he spends his days concealing a secret identity, he seems to be genuinely comfortable in his civilian skin.

“Definitely,” Annabeth nods enthusiastically, “There’s always a ton of work to be done and all the development is exciting to be a part of.”

She leaves her definition of ‘work’ and ‘development’ up to Clark’s interpretation.

“I get to shadow the engineers working on all of Lana’s projects,” she continues, making her absentminded fidgeting more obvious as she starts to ramble a little, “Plus all the new equipment and talent is really cool, even if they only got the funding because Luthor’s in hot water with the board.”

When she makes eye contact, it’s Superman’s eyes she’s looking into, not Clark’s. Annabeth pretends she doesn’t notice the difference.

“Also definitely off record,” she grins, “Sorry, I know you’re friends with Lana, but you’re also a reporter so I probably shouldn’t be telling you all of this.”

Superman shifts back to Clark as he laughs again, softer this time.

“Don’t worry about it,” he smirks, “But just know, Lois wouldn’t be as nice.”

Annabeth also huffs out a laugh. “I figured. I ran into her in the bathroom at the gala and I think she might have wanted to interrogate me.”

They fall into a short comfortable silence, listening to the traffic of the city and the quiet chatter of street passersby. Annabeth can only assume that Clark is also keeping an ear out for ongoing criminal activity.

A few minutes go by until Clark clears his throat.

“Sorry,” he starts, already offering an apology, “I don’t mean to be nosy, but what did you mean about Luthor being on bad terms with the company?”

Annabeth hides a smile. Just because Clark wasn’t one to interrogate, doesn’t mean he wouldn’t resort to it, given enough bait.

“I’m not sure I should say,” she says, hesitating, “I don’t want to get Lana in trouble.”

Clark himself looks alarmed at the thought.

"Off the record," he assures, parroting her words from before, "I wouldn't tell, I care about Lana too."

“It’s just that she’s responsible for me,” Annabeth trails off, then visibly makes up her mind, “Okay. Um, I think the board thinks Luthor—” She lowers her voice. “Had something to do with the planes exploding.”

Clark grimaces, looking unsurprised but disgruntled all the same.

“It’s probably just some rumor,” Annabeth adds hastily, then pauses at the look on Clark’s face, “Right?”

Clark sighs, scratching his head, and looking visibly uncomfortable at the thought of discussing Luthor’s very real villainous past and present with a LexCorp intern.

“With Luthor…” He purses his lips. “I’m sure it’s a rumor.”

Annabeth nods unconvincingly.

Instead of looking her in the eye to strengthen his argument somehow, Clark tilts his head, super hearing picking up on something normally inaudible, and changes the subject.

“Our food’s ready.”

The door to the kitchen has yet to ring, but Annabeth turns to look at it anyways. In just a few seconds, the woman from earlier returns with two large brown paper bags, receipts stapled to their rolled-down edges. As she presents them with their respective orders, Annabeth shoots Clark a confused glance, keeping up the act of an unassuming citizen. Shrugging at her stare, he stands up with a little more force than necessary.

“It was nice seeing you again, Annabeth. Good luck with the rest of your internship,” he hastily says to her, then thanks the employee before quickly exiting the restaurant.

Annabeth stays behind a couple extra minutes to wait for her drink and to put some distance between her and Clark. She’s given him enough information to pique his curiosity, but not enough to satisfy it, and she doesn’t want to upset that delicate balance.

When she steps back out onto the street, the sun has set and her stomach aches for noodles in her hands. As she waits for the crosswalk light to turn green, she tilts her head upwards, just in time to catch a streak of red in the direction of the city center. Walking the three blocks and one avenue back to her apartment, Annabeth mentally reinforces steps five through nine of her plan, readjusting and accounting for new developments. Slowly, events start to flesh themselves out, and by the time she has arrived at her doorstep, the timeline of the next few weeks has been meticulously scheduled.

Annabeth smiles, turning a key in the lock. Luthor has no idea what is coming to him.

Sunday, Annabeth sleeps in. Just a little, because there’s still much work to be done, but today, she doesn’t have to factor in transportation time. When she comes out of her bedroom, dressed and ready, Nico is already lounging at the table in the kitchen, a signature frown upon his pale face. Annabeth had pulled all the curtains shut the night before to help him land, and the darkness of the apartment invokes false tiredness. Without a word, he holds his hand out.

When Annabeth takes it, the shadows intensify, hugging their master into them. She barely has time to shiver from the cold before Nico yanks her through.

Annabeth lands in a bush, spitting out leaves and pulling a few poky bits out of her clothes, but doesn’t say anything. The quiet town in Virginia they’ve arrived at is sunny and bright, with few places for shadows to gather.

“Pick me up in two hours?” she asks Nico, who has had just as ungraceful of a landing and is far more unhappy about it.

Nico eyes her skeptically. “I’m not a personal driver,” he snarks.

“I’ll buy you lunch.”

“Okay.”

Annabeth gives him an incredulous look. “Is that really all it takes? Your dad is the god of riches.”

“I’d rather be a dandelion again than ask him for allowance,” he retorts, spitting the word like a curse, causing her to snort.

She waves goodbye, but Nico is already stepping back into the bush.

Bryant’s home is quite different than Penny’s. The neighborhood houses several large two-story buildings, all of matching architectural design, dark brick with light cobblestone accents along the front pillars. Spacious paved driveways with well-kept cars, curated front yard gardens, neatly trimmed grass and assorted groomed flower bushes. Annabeth drinks this all in as she strides up to the front door and presses the doorbell.

This time, when the door is pulled open by an elderly man with thinning, grey hair, Annabeth straightens her shoulders.

“You were the insurance agent that handled the Luthor life insurance claim.”

Bryant stares at her, unblinking, the muscles in his face twitching slightly beneath his folded skin. Annabeth does not break eye contact. Finally, he lets out a rattled sigh that shakes his shoulders and opens the door wider. Annabeth follows him as he silently disappears into his home.

The inside of his home is not much different than the outside. Homely, in a classically designed way, with family portraits lining the walls, upholstered couches surrounding a wooden center table, and a china cabinet lining the dining room.

“I’m old,” is the first thing he says as he carefully lowers himself down onto a seat, “I’m too old for this to matter much anymore. And I’m tired.”

“Alzheimer’s,” Annabeth guesses, and Bryant fixes her with a startled look, “Your curtains are all open, your outlets have safety covers, and your drawers are labeled.”

Bryant huffs with amusement.

“It’s still very early, but yes,” he confirms, “Today, I poured a cup of tea and couldn’t remember if I had already stirred in a cube of sugar. A year from now someone might dismiss what I have to say as the ramblings of a dementia patient.”

Annabeth studies the man before her. She doesn’t think he’d appreciate an overt show of sympathy. He states his diagnosis as if he’s remarking on the weather. Cloudy today, thunderstorms tomorrow.

“That implies that there’s a story to tell.”

“I imagined someone with an agenda would eventually come looking for it.” Bryant purses his lips. “Tell me, what is yours?”

“Justice, mostly,” Annabeth shrugs, choosing her words carefully but being entirely truthful, “And a bit of personal satisfaction.”

Bryant observes her for a moment, then removes his glasses to clean them with the hem of his shirt. When he places them back on the bridge of his nose, he sets his jaw. "Well, alright then."

Annabeth allows herself to breathe and sits up straighter in her seat in anticipation.

“After Luthor’s parents died, the insurance company paid a claim of $300,000,” he starts, “Now, back then, that was even a greater sum of money than it is now.”

She smiles wryly. “Rich people become richer.”

"That's the thing," Bryant leans in conspiratorially, "The Luthors weren't rich."

Annabeth blinks.

She had always just assumed that Luthor had come from old money, never having given a clue to think otherwise. He certainly acted like it.

“They were actually quite poor,” he continues, “They lived in a Metropolis neighborhood people used to call the suicide slums.” Annabeth winced. “People there didn’t usually have the means to pay for life insurance policies.”

Annabeth had heard about Southside Metropolis, an area where the crime rate was significantly higher than the rest of the city. She knows that with Superman and Black Lightning’s help it has gotten safer over the years, but she understands now why Luthor had wanted so badly to hide his origins.

“The policy and its amount weren’t the only unusual things,” Bryant plows on after softening his throat with some water, “When they took out the policy, it came to me by mail. Back then, I usually went door to door to help people fill them out. That’s how we did those things.”

For a quick horrific second, all Annabeth can think of is how many demigods were killed because of monsters disguised as door-to-door salesmen, but before her face can betray her thoughts, she quickly dispels them.

“When I visited their home to let them know that their claim had been approved, Mr. Luthor practically kicked me off his property,” he reveals, shaking his head, “Threatening me and saying that he had never filled out any claim. And then,” he pauses again, “I get an apology letter in the mail, the absolute nerve!”

Bryant looks like he’s back in the past, young, and indignant at the supposed audacity.

“Saying sorry for forgetting about the claim. As if he didn’t say he’d kill me if I ever showed my face again,” he huffs again, this time without humor, “But I guess I didn’t have to worry about that, seeing as the very next day, their car swerved into the wrong late and got hit by a semi.”

Annabeth stills at the abruptness of that statement, then her expression tightens.

“Was the car checked for tampering?” she asks.

“Of course,” the older man says, “I sent a mechanic to check the steering column, but he reported that it was impossible to tell, that the car was far too damaged.” Bryant sighs. "But then again, he quit his job and moved somewhere to start his own auto parts shop."

Annabeth breathes out shakily as her long-time suspicions are finally confirmed.

Lex Luthor killed his parents.

She knows this, and judging by the expression on Bryant’s face as he watches her soak in all of his information, he believes the same.

“Why didn’t you ever say something?” she demands.

The look on his face makes her wish she could take the words back and say them differently.

Bryant places one hand on the table before him and another on his lower back to help him stand. He shuffles to the side of the room and returns, his frail hands clutching a small mahogany frame. When he holds it out to her, Annabeth gingerly takes it into her own hands. It’s an old picture of him, beside a beautiful woman and a toddler, a little girl.

"That's my daughter, she had just turned three. She's the one who labeled all my cabinets and covered all the outlets, you know, even though the doctor said I wouldn't need that for another few months at least," he says, smiling wistfully.

Annabeth looks down at the girl, holding both her parents’ hands and forgetting to look at the camera.

"I couldn't fall down that hole of trying to prove something that could be impossible to," Annabeth hears him say, but doesn't see, her eyes still fixated on the frame, "I heard rumors about the Luthor boy, and how smart he was. If I was right, who knew what he'd be capable of if he found out I was on his trail? I had to protect my family."

Bryant reaches out and gently takes the frame from her fingers and tightens his grip around it.

“I don’t regret it,” he admits, smiling sadly, “I have grandchildren now.”

Logically, Annabeth shouldn’t agree. Letting Luthor go free back then might have had disastrous present-day consequences. But emotionally, she understands. Annabeth contemplates what she would be willing to look past for the opportunity to grow old and weary with her family. A brief vision flashes through her brain, of her and Percy walking slowly down a city street in the fall, using each other for balance as orange leaves drift down around them, clutching tightly to each other’s wrinkled hands.

Annabeth takes a breath to compose herself, shaky on the way in, stable as it passes through her lips again.

When she meets Bryant’s eyes, a moment of understanding passes between them.

“Mr. Bryant, would you be willing to say something now?”

He stares her down, calculatingly. Finally, he gives her a short nod.

“Dennis,” he offers, placing the picture frame back in its proper location. The frames are arranged in chronological order, she observes, spanning early childhood to what looks like within the past year. The thought that a few years from now, that arrangement could end up being the only thing helping him to keep track of the order of his life makes her indescribably sad. And yet, just by looking at his expression, his resolve, she knows she’s found an ally.

“Call me Annabeth.”

The sound of nondescript old jazz blows through the air like wind, audible, then not, then audible again. Annabeth alternates between chewing thoughtfully on toast and scanning the parking lot outside through the window of the booth. Occasionally, she works through a word search on the paper placemat. Across her, Nico devours a plate of chocolate chip pancakes. The speed that he’s eating at is slightly reminiscent of Percy, but she knows if she says anything, he’ll glare at her.

“Did you get what you came here for?” Nico asks, between bites.

Annabeth lazily circles a string of letters in blue crayon, the name of the diner Nico has insisted upon for her payment.

“More or less,” she hums.

Nico doesn’t ask any more questions for a while. Annabeth can’t tell if he’s being polite or if he genuinely does not care. It’s always a toss-up with him, but she’s grateful anyways. Her time speaking with Dennis felt heavy, and she doesn’t feel like discussing it for a while.

“How’s Will?” she asks instead.

Nico immediately blushes around his fork, and Annabeth lets out a sharp laugh at the reaction.

“Shut up,” he grumbles, but Annabeth amusingly points out that she didn’t even say anything, which sends him into another well-meaning scowl.

They fall back into a comfortable silence for another few minutes before she breaks it again.

“What do you know about earthquakes?”

Nico barely looks up from his plate, pausing to say “That’s more Percy’s thing,” before digging back in.

Annabeth ignores this and continues on as if uninterrupted. “Specifically, the one near Tokyo, about two years ago.”

“Surprisingly, that one, I know,” he says, looking intrigued, “Dad complained about it for weeks. Something about mortals disturbing the balance of nature and causing unnecessary deaths.”

Annabeth scowls, deeply and instantly, and Nico stops eating mid-bite, wary of the absolute fury on her face.

“I knew it,” she hisses, “That fucking—” Then she stops and looks at Nico. “Take me home.”

Nico sighs, and waves down the waitress for a to-go box.

Chapter Text

Even knee-deep in work mode, fleshing out a meeting memo to discuss the limitations of using duralumin alloy in the new drones, Annabeth hears and recognizes the familiar gait several seconds before the footsteps come to a stop behind her.

“What are you up to, anything important?” Lana asks, leaning a casual hand on the top of her chair.

Annabeth polishes off the last bullet point before turning her head to make eye contact.

“I feel like I should say yes, out of principle.”

“Right,” Lana snorts, “Well, if you're bored with your oh-so-high-priority task, I have something fun for us."

The other woman jerks her head towards her office, and Annabeth lets out a small grin, promising to join her as soon as she emails out the memo.

Lana’s soundproof office is a welcome respite, blocking out the noises of incessant typing, ringing phones, and mindless chatter that Annabeth has had to endure for hours on end. As she settles into the chair on the opposite side of the desk, Lana drops a stack of paper down onto the wood with a dull thud. Annabeth eyes it warily. Almost eight inches tall, it doesn’t look any more appetizing than planning out unnecessary meetings for people who could have resolved their issues in a brief email thread.

“Alpha testing reports and their corresponding beta testing proposals,” Lana explains, catching her hesitant expression, “And you are going to help me decide which ones to approve.”

Annabeth brightens almost instantly, moving her glasses from her head to her nose and grabbing the first stapled packet.

“For the new tech projects?”

“Some new, some old,” Lana shrugs, grabbing a second copy of the same report, “And others that I was able to pull off the backburner.”

Annabeth nods absently, already starting to read through the testing protocol for a new type of solar panel.

The pair leaf through the reports, initially in silence, then break into a discussion, going back and forth on the strengths of the testing modality, edge cases left unconsidered, the quality and quantity of repeated tests, and so on. And when Annabeth has nothing left to say, Lana nods, brings an ink stamp down onto the cover, sealing the project’s fate, and moves on to the next. As a single hour bleeds into two, and finally three, the daunting stack of paper has been neatly separated into two piles: the approved projects and the ones to be sent back for more rigorous lab testing.

When the clock finally rolls past four pm, Annabeth marvels at how she had barely even noticed the day pass by.

“Finished in record time,” Lana announces, stretching her arms in her seat and glancing down at her phone following a short buzz.

Annabeth opens her mouth to reply, but Lana’s cell buzzes twice more in a row.

“Someone’s persistent,” she comments instead, raising her eyebrows.

“It’s Clark.” Lana rolls her eyes but opens the messages anyways.

“I don’t want to seem like I’m intruding,” Annabeth pauses, “But he’s the one you told me about, right? The childhood friend.”

Lana looks up, expression surprised, before she drops it and sighs.

“The very same.” She shakes her head. “Do I even want to know how you figured that one out?”

Annabeth shrugs, and, with a slightly sheepish smile, gives a half-answer if she's ever heard one.

“Sorry, once my brain connects the dots, there’s no unlearning it.”

“Clearly,” Lana laughs lightly.

She looks down at the phone again, which prompts Annabeth to ask her if everything is alright.

“He’s just being a journalist,” she says flippantly, brushing it off, “He’s on the scent of some kind of story and is looking for information he thinks I have.”

There it is, Annabeth thinks. “Do you?” She tilts her head. “Have it, I mean.”

Her supervisor purses her lips for a long moment, the fingers of her hand hovering over certain keys on the device.

“Nothing concrete,” she says finally, putting the phone down, “I might as well be spreading rumors.”

Annabeth hums, pretending to consider the statement for a few seconds.

“There’s always some kind of truth hidden at the source of a rumor, even if it’s not the one you expect. And,” she says, risking a paper cut by toying with the corner of the approved stack, “In my experience, it can be easier to find evidence when you have an idea of what you’re looking for.”

Lana leans back into her chair, hair creasing where it presses against her neck.

“Sometimes, Annabeth, you sound like you’ve lived more years than some of the people on this floor.”

She delivers the observation with a thoughtful tone and a half smile, not completely serious, but Annabeth can’t help but think that sometimes, it really does feel like that.

Aloud, however, she says, “I hope that’s not you calling me old,” and pulls a face.

Lana huffs. “You are far too young to be making that joke.”

“Didn’t you just say I was wise beyond my years?” Annabeth teases, smirking.

“I distinctly remember not using that word,” Lana shoots back.

As she and the older woman share a laugh, Annabeth takes a minute to pause, staring out the window and twisting a knot out of her forearm, a consequence of keeping up with her archery practice. Her thoughts drift to her usual topic of choice.

While not as high up as the penthouse, Lana’s office still towers over several other skyscrapers in Metropolis, giving Annabeth a bird’s eye view of the city. She’s come to almost like it, with its vibrant green parks, crisp summer air, and easily navigable streets. And yet, it still doesn’t compare to New York City. Metropolis is all straight, neat lines, not minimalistic thank the gods, but sleek, nonetheless. In the daytime, the buildings are practically blinding, white cement and silver windows. Annabeth misses the grittiness of home. Graffitied alleyways, chipped brick, and statues covered in rust as if they were literally steeped in history.

“You know,” Lana speaks suddenly, pulling Annabeth out of her architectural reverie, “I read your interview notes from back in May, and you’re different than what they wrote you out to be.”

Annabeth blinks, focusing in on Lana, and gives another half-shrug.

“Everyone embellishes a little.”

“No, not that,” Lana says, “I think I was expecting someone a bit more like…Lex.”

Annabeth knows this. She knows this because that had been her whole point. She had drafted a version of herself that would give her the greatest chance of making it into the company. Her interview responses, resume, and demeanor had all been a purposeful choice. She knows this. So why does the comparison still feel like a sharp stab to the gut? To be likened to someone she considers a monster in the mortal world feels like a betrayal. Whether one from Lana, or to herself, or to her past, she can’t seem to detangle the mess of emotions right away. She doesn’t want to let her true feelings show, but they must, at least a little, because Lana sees the look on her face and backtracks immediately.

“I didn’t mean…” she tries, but Annabeth shakes her head, desperate for some kind of control.

“It’s okay,” she starts, “I just had a different opinion of Mr. Luthor before I started working here, and now…” She purses her lips, cutting off her own words, but Lana gets the point.

"It was just my first impression from the notes," Lana clarifies, quickly, "I definitely don't think that way anymore, now that I've gotten to know you."

Annabeth gives her a weak smile, but on the inside, she almost wants to scream. You don’t know me, she thinks, not really. She doesn’t spend every waking hour lying her to supervisor, but so many of their conversations have ulterior motives that Annabeth’s psyche is wearing thin trying to keep track of them all. What if, without even realizing it, she actually does resemble—

“How do you feel about a change of title?”

Annabeth jerks back into focus, squashing that train of thought as far down as she can possibly manage. Now is not the time.

“What kind of change?” she asks, brows furrowing.

“From intern to assistant,” Lana replies, lips twitching at the way Annabeth gapes a little bit.

“Yours?”

It comes out a little more aggressive than she means it to.

“No, Heyeck’s.”

Lana breaks her own poker face to laugh at the way Annabeth scowls. “Yes, my assistant.”

A whirlwind of new possibilities floods her mind. She hadn’t exactly planned for this, and Annabeth is at odds with herself, confused and more than a little excited about what it means for the bigger picture.

"You'd pretty much be doing a lot more tasks like this one, just with higher clearance. To be honest," Lana lowers her voice mock conspiratorially, "It's kind of an excuse to bring you places."

“I’m only here for the summer,” Annabeth argues, just to push back a little, but it’s a flimsy counterpoint.

Lana shrugs, leaning back. “So it’s a temp position then. And you can see how you feel by the end of August.”

“Okay,” Annabeth agrees, letting out an almost disbelieving laugh, “Yes, I accept.”

When Lana ushers her out of the office and home for the day with the promise of a new employment contract to be delivered to her inbox by morning, Annabeth pauses in the doorway, hearing the soft whoosh of a text message being sent, and smiles.

Following a bout of grumbling and groaning made quiet by a delicious bribe, Annabeth finds herself sitting on Dennis Bryant’s couch once again, a plate of butter biscuits and a cup of tea placed before her. Wait here, Dennis had said before clutching the railing and ascending the stairs, so here Annabeth waits, sipping on the pleasantly bitter drink.

The man finally emerges with a battered tin box in his hands, which he drops into her lap before disappearing again into the kitchen. This time, he returns for good, a small piece of metal glinting in his fist. Annabeth wordlessly passes him the box.

“You ready?” Dennis asks, grinning, and turns a key into the lock, “I didn’t want to show my hand right away, but I think now’s the time.”

Annabeth has no idea what she is or isn’t ready for. Dennis had called her to visit without giving any additional information as to why.

In two rotations, the lid pops open, and Dennis pulls it the rest of the way. The joints creak like they haven’t been used in decades.

Inside is a small stack of tri-folded paper, yellowed with age, and upon Dennis’s encouraging nod, Annabeth pulls them free, flipping the top and bottom out to read.

Her eyes widen.

“You still have these?” she asks, breathless, snapping her gaze back to the older man’s.

Annabeth flips to the next couple of pages, eyes roaming. She thought she’d need more time, but this, this speeds up the investigation process tremendously.

“That rabbit hole I mentioned?” Dennis starts, and Annabeth hums but her attention doesn’t leave the contents of the box, “I pulled myself out pretty early, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t keep a few souvenirs.”

When she reaches the last two documents in the stack, Annabeth’s brows shoot up to her hairline.

“Now where in the world, did you get these?”

Dennis chuckles, looking far too pleased with himself.

“I used to be pretty spry, you know, back in my good old days.” He puffs his chest exaggeratedly. “I knew how to be sneaky.”

Annabeth laughs but doesn’t dispute his claim.

“And I wasn’t sure these would hold up in court back then,” Dennis explains.

Annabeth grins, folding up the stack of papers and tucking them safely away into the box.

“Lucky for us, the court of appeals determined handwriting analysis to count as expert testimony in 1999.”

“You a law student or something?” Dennis asks, looking impressed. Then, he squints. “Don’t tell me… is this your thesis?”

Annabeth bursts out in an expected fit of laughter at the thought. Not because this isn’t something she would do to further her education had she been in law school, but because it very well might have been.

“No, no,” she says, still snickering, “I’m not, I’m studying architecture.”

She can’t tell if Dennis is disappointed or relieved by that admission, but he does look somewhat baffled by her choice of major, which amuses her further.

“Do you enjoy it?”

“I love it,” Annabeth grins, and then can’t help but gush because she hasn’t been awarded an opportunity to talk about the topic recently, “I’m reading this book right now about the importance of post-modernism, and how a structure can’t serve its many masters while conforming to the radical simplicity of modernism. The way Venturi reads buildings is genius, even if some of his built works don’t necessarily display the same complexity that he described in his theory sections.”

“I’m not sure I understood any of that,” Dennis laughs, scratching his chin, “But I can tell you’re passionate. Are you in school for the summer?”

Annabeth makes a noise in her throat to signal no. “I’m in Metropolis.”

The older man makes an ‘ahh’ face and nods knowingly. “For research.”

“Actually, I have an internship,” she pauses, “At LexCorp.”

Annabeth hides her smile behind another sip of tea when Dennis blinks, flabbergasted.

"Why," he starts, then closes his eyes and shakes his head, “Never mind. The less I know the better.” Then he pauses again. “It’s the middle of the week, how are you getting to and from Virginia?”

Annabeth casts a swift glance out the window, just in time to see Nico unsuccessfully attempt to shoo a curious squirrel away from his boot laces. The son of Hades mutters something, likely a curse, and moves to a different square of the sidewalk, but the small critter follows in his shadow.

Annabeth tamps down another laugh and repeats after Dennis.

“The less you know the better.”

That weekend, in the safety of her heavily secured apartment, Annabeth compiles all of her evidence into a single crisp brown envelope.

Two newspaper articles printed from the microfiche room, both dated 1993, the contents of Dennis’s tin box, Dennis’s contact information, a flash drive containing a few heavily incriminating audio clips, and a brief, typed letter summarizing the nature of the crimes outlined in the provided documents. Everything is ordered precisely, the letter resting at the top like a page of contents, and inserted carefully into the envelope.

Annabeth places it on her kitchen table and stares. It’s highly unassuming. Simple. Nondescript. Contains information capable of setting off a figurative bomb. Annabeth stares at it some more.

It would be so easy to just walk down to the police station and drop it off. It’s only a ten-minute walk, and she could run there in two if she really wanted. Annabeth chews her lip thoughtfully and leans against the chair backing with a sigh. She knows the decision she has to make; she just doesn’t want to make it. Before she can talk herself out of it, and come up with another way to make everything work out the way she wants it to, Annabeth swallows her pride, straightens the envelope, and, in a font unrecognizable from her own, writes the words she doesn’t want to write on the blank cover.

Nearing the end of Tuesday’s workday, Annabeth scrolls through Lana’s schedule for the week, courtesy of her new cushy job title, and finds the block of time she’s looking for.

Tuesday, July 1st
4:30 PM to 6:30 PM.
Out of Office. Personal Leave.

Making sure none of the details have changed, Annabeth closes out all of her open tabs, packs her belongings, and pokes her head into Lana's office.

“I forgot I have some almost overdue library books, mind if I step out early to return them?”

Lana waves her away as she rearranges the papers on her desk to leave for the day, stating that she, too, has somewhere to be in thirty minutes.

Exiting the building, Annabeth stops by a nearby café for a pastry, taking time to enjoy the soft Italian music winding through tables and chairs. She’s got a little over half an hour to kill, after all.

Annabeth paces outside a high rise, nearly wearing a groove in the concrete as she cranes her neck left and right to catch a glimpse of someone heading in her direction. She would look a little crazy to outsiders, but the Yankees cap on her head does its job, shielding her suspicious behavior from view.

Thankfully, she only has to wait another few minutes before someone trudges along, scanning a set of keys over a grey pad, and yanks the door open. Annabeth slips in behind undetected. Careful to stay quiet and just enough feet away, Annabeth makes it onto the elevator just as the automatic metal doors meet in the middle.

Standing in front of a plaque embossed with the number 207, she checks her watch one more time, just in case. Annabeth unzips her backpack to retrieve the infamous brown envelope and places it face-down on the rough welcome mat, the object becoming visible the moment it leaves her grasp. Then, she lifts her knuckles and knocks sharply, before hurrying to a vantage point several doors down the hall.

There’s a slow, cautious creak of a hinge. A familiar woman with dark hair steps out, casting her gaze down both sides of the hallway. Despite being invisible, Annabeth stands very, very still. The woman looks down, stooping to gather Annabeth’s pride and joy in her hands, and inspects it carefully, its weight, the writing on the cover, even smelling it. Finally, she pries open the metal fastening and slides out the contents, irises flicking left and right through the first page. Her eyes widen, getting larger and larger until she reaches the end, sucking in a sharp breath. She shoves everything back inside, scans the hallway again, and retreats, slamming the door shut behind her.

In her head, Annabeth mentally starts a countdown.

“Any day now,” Annabeth says into the phone squashed between her ear and her shoulder, as she runs a sponge over a dirty dish, “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Annabeth, dear, just because I’m graying does not mean you need to coddle me,” Dennis says, then coughs some phlegm out of his throat, “I can tell a lie.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose, leaving a trail of bubbles.

“The whole point is not to lie, you have to tell the truth,” she replies, exasperated, “And if they ask about me—”

“They won’t,” Dennis interrupts, but sensing her rebuttal, continues, “But if they do, I don’t know you and I don’t know where to find you.”

“You can’t lie,” Annabeth reminds him, for what feels like the tenth time.

“At the heart of it, an insurance agent is just a fancy salesman. I know my way around words,” Dennis snarks, more chipper than usual, “Besides, other than your first name and a few odd details, I really don’t know much.”

Annabeth mutters a well-meaning good luck and hangs up, returning to her dishes and trying to scrub away the sting that sentence leaves.

The weekend comes and goes without fuss.

Lana releases word of LexCorp’s plan to install their new solar panels at Metropolis University’s greenhouse for beta testing, which generates some local buzz. On Friday, she thanks Annabeth for suggesting the location change, confirming what Annabeth had predicted about school improvements leading to more positive media coverage.

On Sunday, Annabeth tries a new martial arts gym, getting out a fight her limbs had desperately needed for days. Following an especially brutal defeat (not hers), she relents and spends another hour giving pointers to new and regular patrons. It feels somewhat like camp, and yet still so different. She’s used to coaching teenagers, not middle-aged adults whose first instinct is to sidestep a punch instead of meeting it head-on with a sharp and deadly weapon.

Even the first few days of work the following week are quiet. Not dull, but uneventful all the same. Lana looks jittery, and Annabeth sees her less than usual, but she’s not exactly surprised by the change in demeanor.

Almost exactly one week later, the countdown reaches zero.

After work on Wednesday, she meets Piper at a somewhat fancy restaurant for dinner at her friend’s request and treat. Piper orders for the both of them, promising Annabeth she’ll like the food and they chatter aimlessly as the waiter heads to the kitchen to punch in their requests.

“We haven’t heard much from you recently,” Piper says at some point, hesitant to sound confrontational, “Everything okay?”

Annabeth rubs her temples and sighs. “I’ve just been really busy.”

Piper sends her a look that says she doesn’t believe a word coming out of Annabeth’s mouth.

“You’ve been distracted all night,” she remarks.

Annabeth hadn’t noticed.

“I’m fine,” she replies, firmly.

Piper takes the hint, for now, and that’s the end of that conversation.

She starts another, about the most recent hike she and Shel have been on. Twelve miles up, with a gradient not fit for the faint of heart, but the most incredible views make the journey worth it, Piper says. Annabeth is leaning over the table, as Piper swipes through photos of her and her girlfriend at the peak, hair blowing in the mountain wind, when Annabeth feels her phone buzz. Distantly, she hears several other devices in the establishment go off at the same time.

She leans back with an apology, and clicks on the offending notification, one from the Daily Planet. She only has to wait a moment for her phone to translate the article.

LEX LUTHOR FROM RAGS TO RICHES: A TALE TAINTED BY MURDER

By Clark Kent and Lois Lane

Alexander ‘Lex’ Luthor, the city’s well-known benefactor wasn’t always the man he is known to be today. Growing up in Southside Metropolis, infamously dubbed the ‘suicide slums,’ Luthor hasn’t always had the lavish lifestyle he currently flaunts. Following the death of his parents and the inheritance of a rather large life insurance policy, Luthor has built himself and his company, LexCorp, up to the tech giant that it is today. However, behind this rags-to-riches success story, lies a horrific secret.

Recently uncovered evidence suggests the car crash that killed Lionel and Lillian Luthor was no accident and paints the surviving Luthor as the culprit. While the source of these documents shall remain unnamed for safety and security reasons, the credibility has been thoroughly vetted by the Daily Planet.

“It’s my firm belief that [Lionel] Luthor did not fill out that insurance claim himself,” an anonymous source said, “And just a few days later, the car runs straight into a truck leaving [Lex Luthor] with a couple hundred grand? I don’t think so.”

The following documents show…

Annabeth is aware of her lips twitching as she reads through, however much she tries to stop them. She can also feel Piper’s curious eyes fixated on her, but she ignores them and plows through the article at unprecedented speed. She’ll have time for a more thorough dive later.

Once she’s finished, she looks up at Piper with an unnaturally pleased smile. The other girl extends her arm and opens and closes her hand in a ‘gimme’ gesture. Annabeth hands her the phone.

It’s even more satisfying to watch her friend read it, the way Piper’s jaw drops a little at the title and then continues to hang lower and lower with every passing sentence. When she finishes, Piper places the phone gingerly back on the table and slides it over.

“Isn’t that your boss?” she hisses in Greek, looking around.

Other restaurant patrons are also glued to their phones, exchanging similar expressions of horror and disbelief with their dining partners, and texting furiously.

“Not for long,” Annabeth replies in the same tongue, smirk turning sharper.

“You,” Piper pauses, interrupted by the waiter setting down plates of food before them, “You terrify me, you know that?”

Her eyes are crazed, the kaleidoscope of colors shifting faster than usual.

Annabeth smiles around her fork. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

The next morning, Annabeth’s walk to LexCorp is overwhelming. It seems that overnight, every person in the city has seen and read Clark and Lois’s article. The attention-grabbing headline is plastered across every newspaper on every corner stand she passes. And when she arrives at her place of work, she has to shove her way through a crowd of reporters camped outside, clamoring for quotes. Several white vans and cars flashing red and blue decorate the street, parked in every available and unavailable spot. Normally stationed inside, the building guards have doubled in number and line the outside of every glass door, only stepping aside to let her through once she flashes her security badge.

Annabeth stops beside a coworker she recognizes who has also paused before the turnstiles to survey the scene from within the safety of the building.

"What's happening?" Annabeth asks, her voice only a few notches higher than a whisper.

The woman wrings her hands nervously. “You saw the Daily Planet article?”

“Who hasn’t?” Annabeth retorts.

“The city wants answers,” her coworker replies, then mutters, “And I don’t think I want to be here anymore.”

Behind them both, someone barks out an order for the employees to move, and Annabeth immediately whirls around, backing out of the way and pulling the woman with her. What looks like a small army of uniformed officers burst through the turnstiles, and although Lex Luthor is surrounded by them on all sides, handcuffed and being herded along, the cold fury on his face makes everyone in the lobby take a step back.

“You’re making a mistake,” he seethes quietly, in a downright deadly tone, to the police around him before falling silent.

In the chaos, Annabeth makes eye contact with him for just a fraction of a moment. In that small instant, she can see that Luthor is beyond livid, on the warpath, plotting ruin to his unknown assailant. He doesn’t believe for one second that all of this is the culmination of some unfortunate coincidence. Annabeth turns her gaze to the ground, only observing through her eyelashes.

To everyone else, he remains eerily composed, but she knows better. While he doesn’t struggle against his bonds, his stare roams the lobby, sharp and cataloging every detail of the scene. As the officers lead him into and through the gaggle of shouting journalists and live cameras, Annabeth can tell: Luthor’s eyes promise revenge.

Chapter Text

It’s not every day that the CEO of one of the most influential multinational conglomerates is arrested on suspicion of murder, and it shows.

It’s not like Luthor being arrested has any direct and immediate effect on the responsibilities of the employees on her floor. Annabeth can’t say the same for the marketing, public relations, and legal departments, but at the very least, technology should’ve been spared. The usual chain of command spans from project managers and supervisors all the way up to Lana, who only involves Luthor when strictly necessary. There’s no reason Annabeth’s coworkers can’t simply continue working on their ongoing tasks, pushing code changes, sending new features to the testing stage, and complaining to their neighbors about product designers and their wildly unreasonable sprint deadlines. Everyone is sitting at their computers, as usual, but she can see that not a single person is doing a shred of their assigned work.

They had all read the memo that Heyeck, the company’s chief operating officer had sent out in the morning, only an hour after the police had dragged Luthor away in handcuffs, Annabeth included. His words had been well written, reassuring the workforce of their continued employment and humbly asking them to conduct their days as usual with the promise of answers to come. But, at the end of the day, it was like fixing a cracking foundation with epoxy injections: a naïve, short-term solution for a much deeper, complex problem.

Instead, Annabeth’s coworkers are scrolling through various social media feeds, reading professional and opinionated accounts of the breaking news. They are texting their family and friends about how it feels to work in a building that, until recently, housed a man who had supposedly killed his parents as a teenager.

Annabeth herself has to bite her jaw to keep from laughing at a text from Leo that reads THIS YOU followed by a string of alternating question and exclamation marks. Hasn’t been two months yet, she replies, not really answering his question. She tucks her phone into her lap at the sound of familiar footsteps.

Lana looks haggard. It’s the best word Annabeth can conjure to describe the other woman’s current state. The usual neat office wear and pristine makeup can only do so much to distract from her exhaustion, the deep bags under her eyes, and the tired, but tense slump of her shoulders.

“Emergency board meeting on Monday,” Lana says softly, “You up for it?”

Several pairs of eyes around the room watch the interaction. The woman hasn’t left her office in hours.

“Are you?” Annabeth can’t help but ask. Guilt courses through her at the utter stress that streaks across Lana’s face. “I mean, are you sure you want me there?”

“The burden of being my assistant,” Lana says, then sighs, “You don’t actually have to, I just—”

“I’ll come.”

Annabeth knows that attending board meetings is absolutely not required of her as Lana’s assistant. She had read the new contract as thoroughly as the first. Disregarding her own motivations for saying yes, Lana, though she won't say it to Annabeth's face, just wants her support, and that’s reason enough.

Lana’s face folds in relief. It does only little to assuage the pit in Annabeth’s stomach.

Friday is somehow worse than the day before.

The office is strangely quiet, and emptier than Annabeth has ever seen it. There are more of her coworkers missing than there are present. She usually despises the background noise, the typing, the chattering, the glug of the water cooler, but today, the silence is almost eerie.

Thirty-six hours after detonation and Metropolis is still reeling from the shockwaves.

Lana is once again holed up in her office. Annabeth had not seen her enter in the morning, nor come out even once since then. Around two-thirty, Annabeth checks in on her.

“How’s it going?” she asks quietly, once the other woman is safely off the phone.

With a hand over her face, Lana rubs her temples and lets out a groan of frustration.

“We sent out notices to all of our divisions, our major business partners, the heads of our subsidiaries, everyone. Yes, Luthor really has been arrested, yes, we are aware of the stock price, yes, we are working on a short and long-term plan. And, yet, everyone keeps goddamn calling me to ask the same questions I’ve already answered as much as I can!”

In the short silence following her outburst, the desk phone rings again, and Lana snatches it up, musters as much restraint as she can, and says, “Yes?” with thinly veiled irritation.

Her face pinches severely, before smoothing out.

“Yes, cooperate.” She pauses, her expression annoyed with the person’s next words. “I’m aware that Luthor’s crime does not directly involve the company. I’m telling you to cooperate with the investigators anyway. Have the legal team provide any documents they need.” She pauses again. “No, I don’t expect fraud, but I’d sure like to double-check,” she says sarcastically, and puts the receiver back down, glaring at it.

“Advising the legal team doesn’t seem like it falls under the chief of technology title,” Annabeth observes.

“It doesn’t,” Lana closes her eyes, “And yet, here I am, doing it anyways.”

“Have you eaten?”

Lana raises her gaze, brows furrowing. The concern on Annabeth’s face is completely genuine. She walks up and places a tinfoil-wrapped sandwich before the other woman.

“You didn’t take a break yesterday either,” she points out, “So I brought extra today.”

Lana gingerly picks up the food, looking touched. She opens her mouth, then seems to change to mind.

“Thank you, Annabeth,” she says, instead of what probably would have been a polite refusal.

Annabeth stands still, and they stare at each other for a moment before Lana seems to understand why she hasn’t moved. The other woman huffs and unwraps the sandwich, taking a bite. She hums slightly, pleased at the taste, and goes in for another.

Her agenda fulfilled, Annabeth almost turns to get back to her desk, but Lana’s voice stops her.

“What’s this?” she asks, curiously, eyes catching the letters on the foil, “T minus one?”

Despite the high-strung atmosphere, Annabeth smiles.

“My boyfriend made them for the week, counting down to my birthday tomorrow.”

Lana lets out a surprised laugh.

When Annabeth turns her spare key in the lock and crosses into the Jackson-Blofis household, she’s welcomed by a loud pop and a mouthful of blue confetti. Just as her vision clears, her assailants erupt in a chorus of “Surprise!” at varying volumes. A small hobbling creature launches herself at her legs with a war cry, babbling “Anna, Anna, Anna.” She reaches down and scoops her up. Estelle giggles and starts to pick the plastic off her head, no doubt ripping out a few hairs in the process.

Percy steps forward, the first to actually greet her, and cups her face in his hands.

“Happy birthday wise girl,” he murmurs, softly kissing both of her cheeks. He then repeats the action to his sister, sloppily, making the little girl squeal in protest.

She doesn’t even have the time to respond before she’s accosted again in a tight hug that smells faintly like licorice. Then it’s Paul’s turn to embrace her, more loosely, but just as warm. It’s overwhelming, in the best way possible. They usher her inside, where the entire apartment has been decorated with haphazard streamers, balloons, and a table full of some of her favorite foods. Estelle wiggles in her grip, and Annabeth sets the toddler down, watching her run to catch up with her parents, who are arranging the plates and utensils.

“Mom doesn’t even do all this for my birthday,” Percy says, pouting childishly.

Annabeth raises her chin up to meet his gaze and smirks. “She likes me more.”

Playfully dodging his attempt at a real kiss, Annabeth joins the rest of her family around the dining table to eat lunch.

Annabeth examines the documents before her. She tilts her head, frowning. Behind her, Percy drops his chin onto her shoulder, halfway into her curls, and mumbles a “What’s up?”.

“It’s interesting,” she begins, letting Percy hum at her to continue, “If I wasn’t there to see it, I honestly would not know which is yours and which is Estelle’s.”

Percy shoots back up with an indignant, “Hey!”, making Annabeth burst into laughter. “It’s not that bad,” he protests halfheartedly, but he’s offended because she’s kind of right.

On the fridge before them, suspended by touristy NYC magnets, hang three colorful pages, jagged on the edges where Estelle had ripped them from her book, insistent on conducting a coloring competition as part of Annabeth’s birthday festivities.

Estelle had scribbled furiously on her drawing of a mermaid, individual scales of its tail a mish-mash of four different colors, spilling over into the ocean background. The creature’s hair is a bright pink and not fully filled in, a stark contrast against its dark blue skin tone. She, of course, had been crowned the winner. Percy’s, only marginally neater, is a neon yellow and purple striped shark. She had watched him in the act, trying but eventually failing to remain inside the lines. She looks pointedly at those two drawings, and then at her own, a navy octopus, suction cups carefully filled in a light grey.

“I’ll have you know,” Percy starts, angling himself so she can see him place his hands on his hips, “I have it on good authority that sharks wish they looked like that.”

Annabeth visibly struggles to hold in another laugh, and Sally tells Percy to stop arguing with himself and bring out the cake.

Staring down at the flickering candles, arranged spherically in the blue icing, she listens to Percy’s horrible rendition of the classic birthday song, Sally and Paul trying to keep up, but eventually dissolving into laughter.

Today, she turns twenty. It’s a number larger than seven-year-old Annabeth could have dreamed of. It’s an achievement. During the section of the song where they toast to her, she makes eye contact with Percy, and she can tell he’s thinking the exact same thing. We made it. She feels her throat tighten with emotion.

When the singing finally comes to an end, Annabeth leans down and blows it all out.

She hardly brings anything more than a backpack when she visits Percy. And why would she, when his closet is right there, filled with sweatshirts that belong to her just as much as they do to him? She slides one on, leaning against the wall and flipping through a spare oceanography textbook as she waits.

It isn’t long before Percy returns from the kitchen, arms full of candy and chips they have no hope of finishing.

“You have fun today?” he asks, as he sets everything down on his desk.

When Annabeth looks up from reading the cheesy little notes he’s scribbled in the margins, he’s standing inches away, smiling proud like he had organized the whole event all by himself.

“I did,” she says, looping her arms around his neck with a teasing smile, “Tell Sally I said thanks.”

Percy huffs and pinches the side of her waist in retaliation. Annabeth raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not the ticklish one in this relationship, seaweed brain.”

Immediately, his hands shoot up in surrender, then wrap around his midsection, and he backs away slowly at the smirk on her face.

Silence wraps around them like a blanket, as they watch each other. They’ve known each other too long for lulls in conversation to be awkward. Percy wants to say something, she can tell, but he’s stalling, which is curious.

“So…” he finally speaks, biting his lip.

“So,” she echoes, but waits for him to fully finish choosing his words.

“I was talking to Piper the other day…” Percy loses his footing for just a second, and Annabeth has a sinking feeling she knows what he’s going to say. She doesn’t want him to continue because if he does, she won’t be able to lie to him, but she doesn’t interrupt him either. “And she mentioned that you were kind of, I dunno, off? And I trust Piper, obviously, but I figured you really were just stressed out at the moment. And then today, I thought you were going to be in a better mood, not that you weren’t! Just that, I know what you’re like when you finish one of your projects, you get that specific smile, like the one after your Environmental Systems final, and I saw the arrest live on tv, so I thought you’d have that smile today, but you…didn’t.”

Percy stops his rant earlier than she was expecting, which leaves Annabeth scrambling to decide what to say, though he seems content to wait as long as she had for him. Many thoughts, far too many to sort through, flood her brain, and Annabeth can hardly keep up with them herself.

“It’s not over,” is what makes it out of the chaos.

Percy frowns.

“You got him on a double murder charge. He’s behind bars and awaiting trial, how is it not over?”

And okay, Annabeth can handle the direction this conversation is going.

“It’s not enough to hold him, I need more evidence,” she explains, her lips sour and downturned.

“But the article,” Percy protests, “How is it not enough?”

“Luthor has money which means lawyers and—” Annabeth cuts herself off with a shake of her head, “Trust me, it’s not.”

Percy stops arguing, he knows better. “What do you need?” he asks instead.

“Luthor did something, something terrible, and I know for a fact that he did it—”

“So what’s the—”

“I have no proof!” Annabeth explodes, hands clenching at her sides, “I can’t prove it! If I present my theory to the authorities, or—or in front of a judge, and they ask me how I know, what am I going to say? ‘Oh, don’t worry about actual evidence, I know a sixteen-year-old that can talk to the dead!’”

She’s out of steam now, breathing heavily like she’s just finished dusting a monster. Percy lets her sit in the silence for a few moments so she can regain control.

“You’ll find the proof, I know you will,” he says, softly, “I also know that’s not what this is about. C’mon, talk to me, Annie.”

She barely responds to the nickname, another glaring sign that something is wrong. Percy isn’t always right, not like in the way she and the other Athena and Minerva kids can be. But, after all these years, when it’s about Annabeth, he’s never wrong.

It’s why she had known, from the minute he had opened his mouth about Piper, that she was going to have to come clean about the thing that’s been bothering her, no matter how much she had tried to avoid it. The words feel heavy on her tongue, thick and sludgy like cement, but then she looks up. On the other end of that stare is Percy, and that makes all the difference.

“Last week, Lana said, that she thought I was going to be like him,” Annabeth presses her lips together, but the words come out, like she knew they would, “Like Luthor. It was just one of those throwaway comments, and she says she doesn’t feel that way anymore, but what if she’s right?”

“She’s not,” Percy says, the certainty in his voice stronger than she’s ever heard it.

Annabeth sighs. “You don’t know that—”

“Yes, I do,” he insists, then folds his arms, “Actually you know what, explain it to me.” Annabeth furrows her brows at the change in his posture. “Tell me why you think she’s right, and I’ll argue every single one of your points.”

There’s a challenging glint in his eyes, one she knows far too well. Even so, she takes the bait.

“I’m ambitious, and arrogant—”

“Name me one Athena kid who isn’t.”

“I’ve been manipulating people for months,” she reveals, but Percy just shrugs in response.

“Not with malicious intent, though. Hades, you did the same to me during my first capture the flag, and look at us today!” He smiles lopsidedly.

Annabeth refuses to bow. “Then you said it yourself, my need to win.”

“That’s not really a problem. Winning is good. Besides, you say that, but I feel like you’re confusing winning with surviving,” Percy points out, tone shifting to something a little more serious.

Annabeth grits her teeth.

“I can be kind of an asshole,” she tries. It’s one of her weaker arguments for sure.

“Which I love about you,” Percy retorts, a soft smile on his lips.

She almost stops, but the last one tumbles out before she can think to swallow it.

“We have the same fatal flaw.”

Percy pulls back the humor at the stricken look on her face.

“I’ve been working around his pride. It’s the only reason I’ve gotten this far, and it’s because I know his hubris too well.”

A feeling of shame rolls around in her stomach at the confession. Admitting that she only knows exactly how to hit Luthor where it hurts because they share the same excessive pride stings more than she was expecting it to.

“I think that’s a good thing,” Percy says slowly, and Annabeth’s brow creases as she opens her mouth, “No wait, let me finish. You being aware of your fatal flaw is what makes you different than Luthor. Yeah, sometimes you believe you can do something better than anyone else, but you don’t always act on that feeling. I mean, you let Nico, and even Leo, help you with this whole grand plan, even if I bet your first instinct was to figure it out yourself.”

A heavy feeling of something slams into the back of her corneas and she can feel her eyes start to shine. Percy crosses the space between them, gripping her hands in his.

“You told me, that Luthor thinks he’s above everyone else, like he’s the greatest thing to walk this planet, like he’s some kind of god.” When Percy smiles at her, it’s proud and much too fond. “You’re the one with actual ichor in your veins, and even you know better.”

As hard as she had tried to hold them in, the tears, like bottled-up feelings in Percy's presence, spill over, trailing down her cheeks. She takes a shuddering breath in, and feels his lips press against her forehead.

“When’d you get so good at arguing?” she laughs wetly. She wants to wipe her face, but Percy won’t let go of her hands.

“Freshman and sophomore year? Living under the same roof? Ring any bells?” Percy teases, finally untangling his fingers to hug her tight to his chest.

“Oh gods, remember the night before that chem test,” she mumbles, letting his shirt dry her tears, “And you wanted me to ditch studying to go, what was it, surfing in Sydney.”

His shoulders shake with laughter at the memory. “I remember winning you over, and I remember you acing it anyways.”

Annabeth rolls her eyes at the smugness in his voice but clutches him even tighter. “Percy?” Her cadence is still a little shaky, but he just hums in response.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, wise girl.”

Sunday is about as lazy as they come.

Paul makes the family a magnificent pancake spread, a collection of toppings so impressive Annabeth genuinely gapes the moment she sees it, before schooling her face into something less ravenous and more appropriately hungry. Percy, naturally, sees it and snickers at her until Sally carries a sleepy Estelle out of her room, directing his teasing to a new target.

Later, they watch cartoons, or at least, Percy and Estelle do, while Paul runs a red marker over an endless stack of paper, muttering pleas for the gods to help him overcome the burden of high school essays, and Sally sits across from him at the table, penning a draft of her new novel into a notebook. Annabeth sits on the couch, legs outstretched, and toes tucked under Percy’s thighs. She alternates between glancing over at the colorful animations and doing research for the next step of the plan.

Just as Annabeth sets her phone down after firing out a text, she makes direct eye contact with Estelle, who has crawled from Percy’s lap and onto her legs to demand attention. Annabeth flips her laptop closed and obliges her.

At a few minutes past five pm, the doorbell rings, and Paul disappears down the hall to answer it. When he returns, Leo stands in his shadow, donning the brightest, most mismatched outfit she has ever seen in her entire life.

“What on earth are you wearing, dear?” Sally asks, eyebrows to the ceiling. Paul mutters something about this not being the distraction he asked for and returns to his work.

“I said to dress inconspicuous,” Annabeth says.

“I’m hiding in plain sight,” he tells them, with a wild grin.

Annabeth stares. Next to her, Percy sighs and heads to his room to get Leo a change of clothes.

All of her supplies gathered into a single backpack, Annabeth laces her sneakers tight. Leo pulls his half-burnt boots and toolbelt over his new, much-more-appropriate-for-breaking-and-entering outfit. She hands him a pair of gloves that match her own, completing the look.

“You got everything?” Percy asks for the third time. He stares longingly toward the front door.

“Yeah man, it’s all here, no need to worry,” Leo assures him, “Are you sure you don’t wanna join?”

"I'm on babysitting duty," Percy says regrettably, carding a hand through his hair. Annabeth knows that his tone of voice is fake. Percy loves to babysit. “Just, keep—” Percy stops, then turns from Leo to Annabeth. “Him safe.”

Annabeth laughs, pressing a kiss to her boyfriend’s cheek as a goodbye, and drags Leo out of the apartment before he can protest in mock offense.

Festus touches down at a safe distance from their target, metal creaking as his claws dig into the soft soil. He unhinges his jaw and blows a puff of fire straight into Leo’s face, making a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, before unfurling his wings and launching back into the air.

“Relationship troubles?” Annabeth smirks at him.

Leo sputters, trying to get the taste of smoke off his tongue. “I’ve been skimping on his motor oil ‘cause he’s been eating through my supply, that little—” He gags for a moment, then recovers. “Whatever, let’s do this thing.”

The sun has almost set. It’s dark enough for them to not be noticed immediately, but the dim light allows them to sneak comfortably along the brick wall. Annabeth leads them, footsteps quiet and soft against the concrete. Suddenly, she stops and points to a section of the wall twenty or so feet away.

“There it is.” She hands Leo her Yankees hat, fixes him with a stare that promises consequences if he messes with it, and watches him gingerly fix it atop his head. “Do your thing.”

She can’t see him approach the tall, imposing gate, or open the keypad beside it and plug a small device into the wall. She can’t see him fiddling with the controls, disabling the camera, and motion sensors, and gods knows what other security measures Luthor has in place. She can’t see any of it, but she had had Leo walk her through his plan on the way over, twice, so she stands still, waiting patiently with bated breath.

After a few, long minutes, the son of Hephaestus materializes in front of her, her hat in his outstretched fingers.

“We’re clear,” he announces, a little breathless. Annabeth can’t blame him. He’s a bit of a loose cannon and she can’t imagine he’s been given the green light to commit any crimes recently.

She nods, and they make their way over to the non-transmitting camera. Annabeth’s fingers brush over the embossed metal, 1835 Park Ridge Lane, before grabbing onto the metal bars of the gate and hoisting herself swiftly to the top.

At the entrance to the building, Leo steps to the front once more, plugging his little contraption into the large dark pad beside the door. She watches with sharp eyes as he types out a series of commands into his device.

“Inside cameras too?” he confirms, “The man is in jail, what’s he gonna do?”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not watching,” Annabeth says, fingers twitching absently, "Blackout everything."

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, a hand leaving his keyboard to give her a salute, and she rolls her eyes.

Finally, a green outline of a phantom hand lights up the pad, and the lock clicks open. Leo grins proudly and gestures for her to do the honors. Annabeth pushes open the front door.

Luthor’s mansion is hideous.

Utterly hideous.

In fact, it’s such an offensive eyesore, that Annabeth physically recoils at the sight.

The space is flat and empty, exposed concrete and slabs of grey rock everywhere she turns her head. The walls that aren’t made of raw building material are almost white, but also tinged grey, sucking the life out of everything inside. Which is also ironic, considering there’s almost nothing in the mansion but open space and Luthor’s poor definition of art. She shudders. Minimalism.

Across the large room are two twin paintings that each depict a human skull at varying angles, bones distorted in watercolor. As they continue, treading carefully across the center of the floor because there’s quite literally nowhere to hide, she passes a sculpture, made of shiny dark metal, shaped like, what she can only describe as, a blob. At the edge of that room, there’s another piece, another skull, this one some sort of prehistoric creature or monster. She peers closer. Its teeth are made of sharpened bullets.

Behind her, Leo takes a step back at the sight. "Oh. That’s cool. I’m going home.”

Annabeth turns to him. “That bug you made me, find it and remove it. I wove it into his jacket, dark blue, double-breasted, silver buttons. It should be in his closet.”

Leo blanches further. “You want me to go in the man’s bedroom? No way!”

She fixes him with an unimpressed stare. “It’s not like he has empousai living under his mattress, you’ll be fine.”

“That’s not the kind of weird shit I’m worried about,” Leo mutters, stomping off in search of Luthor’s bedroom.

Annabeth creeps around until she enters another open space—and why are there no doors—that holds a massive black table, and one of the largest desktop computers she’s ever seen. On the opposite side of the room is an enormous marble statue that towers over her, arm outstretched as if offering a handshake. Her eyes widen as she reaches a gloved finger to touch the cold stone. It’s Julius Caesar, and it’s most definitely authentic. A ruthless, powerful, intelligent dictator. It’s no surprise to Annabeth that the priceless depiction of one of Rome’s most famous leaders is here, in Luthor’s office. She spares the imposing figure one last glance before striding across to the desk.

There is not one single personal item. No picture frame, no handwritten notes, not even a paperweight. Just the lone monitor and an expensive-looking pen, sharp on one edge.

She almost turns on the computer, but in the center of the top edge is the faint indication of an inactive camera and Leo is still in the other room, so she decides not to take her chances.

Instead, she leans over and runs a hand across the underside of the desk. It’s bare. She straightens, gazing at her surroundings. A painting of messy black and white horizontal strokes catches her eye, and she traces her fingertips around its edge, but there is no latch or clasp that suggests it swings open to reveal a safe like those classic villain types have. She groans in frustration. Opposite her, Julius Caesar stares tauntingly back, the cut stone of his cheeks almost grim. How could there be nothing, not a single thing, indicative of greater villainy? She rests a hand on the plush leather chair, fingers tightening around it, and glances back down at the desk, glaring like it will make something reveal itself to her.

Suddenly, Annabeth stops, noticing something strange with her current position. She gives the chair under her grip an experimental push. It doesn’t budge. Curious. She squats down, examining the legs of the chair, trying to wiggle them where they stand. When they remain still, she realizes that they are attached to the floor. There’s no reason to build an office chair that doesn’t move. Even if the designer forgoes the wheels, they insert some material underneath that makes it easy to adjust.

A sudden thought occurs to her, and she lowers herself down onto the seat, keeping an eye on the floor around her. She waits for a second, then another, but nothing seems to happen.

Leo skids around the corner, almost passing by, but reels in his momentum when he sees her.

“Thank the gods,” he says, patting his toolbelt, “All done! You would not believe the things I’ve seen in that horrible, horrible—”

“How much does Luthor weigh?”

Leo blinks. “Say what now?”

Annabeth racks her brain. “It’s got to be a range, right? Weight fluctuates pretty easily throughout the day, so it can’t be that precise,” she mutters to herself, “He’s about six-two, well built, so probably over one-ninety—”

“He’s got a punching bag, like right next to his bed,” Leo offers, making a face, “Who lives like that?”

“Closer to two hundred then if he’s keeping up a daily routine,” Annabeth muses, doing some quick math, “Have you seen anything around here that weighs about forty pounds?”

Leo stares blankly at her for a moment, Annabeth also trying to think of objects she has passed in the house. For the fourth time in the last hour, she curses minimalism to Hades and back. Suddenly, he gasps and dashes out of sight, returning a few minutes later with a large five-gallon water jug in his arms.

“Okay, so I peeked in his kitchen, I was hungry, sue me. Honestly, there were just a bunch of weird drinks and cuts of red meat, but he had this fancy-looking water cooler," he rambles, carrying it over to Annabeth and gently lowering it onto her lap. Clearly, he's deduced her train of thought. “I mean, I did find, I think it was a protein bar. And when I tell you, that shit sucked, like really—”

The weight in Annabeth’s lap settles and she hears a faint hiss, cutting Leo off. Something on the desk clicks open, and she maneuvers around the water jug to slide the lifted panel aside to reveal a shallow compartment, a few envelopes and documents neatly lined up. Annabeth looks up and shares a victory grin with Leo.

It’s hardly secure, anyone with a similar enough weight being able to open it, but Annabeth figures it’s less about the security and more about keeping unnecessary objects out of immediate view.

She hands the stack of papers to Leo, keeping the two envelopes for herself, and shifts the cooler farther down her knees so she has the space to read. With glasses perched on her nose, she rifles through. The first one makes her snort, some kind of utility bill notice, but the second is much more interesting.

For one, it’s not addressed to Luthor, but to someone named Julian Alarie. The mailing address lists a PO Box in Metropolis, but, like the other envelope, it’s been cleanly unsealed by the pen slash letter opener on the desk. She removes its contents.

Dear Mister Alarie,

It has come to our attention that your institution, Caesar Contemporary, does not comply with recent policy changes. As of this January’s tax reform legislation, organizations that operate as art museums do not qualify as private operating foundations unless the museum is open to the public during government-set business hours for at least 1,000 hours per year. Audits show that Caesar Contemporary has not been meeting these standards. Unless this oversight is rectified within the next two weeks, the government will have no choice but to pursue further action.

Annabeth reads to the end, where the letter is signed by some small subsection of the government, and frowns in thought. Julian Alarie, Caesar Contemporary? She looks up at the marble statue in the distance. It’s a little too on the nose.

She pulls out her phone. A quick search reveals Caesar Contemporary to be a small art museum in a quiet part of the city, only a fifteen-minute walk from her office. Anonymously financed, privately run, and no mention of an Alarie. It has visiting hours listed now, though Annabeth bets they hadn’t been there a few weeks ago. This might just be what she’s been looking for, she muses, gloved fingers flicking the top corner of the letter, perhaps Luthor is hiding more than just art.

“Anything interesting?” she asks Leo, who looks up, startled. His eyes are a little wide behind a pair of his own translation glasses.

“Huh? Uh, kind of?” He flips to a different page than the one he had currently been on and hands the whole stack over. “Legal contracts with a couple of companies and some reports. I dunno if it’s the juicy blackmail material you’re looking for. You?”

Annabeth spares the page a glance, but it’s just a merger from a recent LexCorp acquisition. “A possible alias and secondary location,” she says, nonchalantly.

“Great!” Leo claps his hands together sharply, and she sees a few sparks of flame spill out. “Can we go now, please? Little Caesars over there is freaking me out.”

Annabeth could not agree more.

She deliberates for just a second, before returning the envelopes to the hidden compartment and handing the documents over to Leo to put in his backpack for a more thorough read-through later. She stands, lifting the water jug with her, and watches the lid sink back into the desk, the outline indistinguishable from the rest of the surface.

After ensuring that everything is back in its original place, namely, that Leo has not left a DNA-riddled, half-eaten protein bar somewhere in Luthor’s trash, they sneak back out, clamber onto Festus’s waiting back, and leave 1835 Park Ridge Lane in the metaphorical dust, minutes before a dark car turns onto the street.

Lana, and, therefore, Annabeth are early to Monday’s emergency board meeting. The older woman had paced outside the room before entering and then continued to fidget in her seat up until the moment the board members and remaining c-suite officers filter in. A few adults give her looks, ranging from mild irritation to simple acknowledgment, but Annabeth meets them all with a silent professional greeting. Lana had already informed them of her presence days ago, and they already had their chances to protest and complain and accept her inevitable attendance.

The chairman of the board, Bauer, arrives last this time, taking his seat at one head of the table. He looks up at the empty space directly across from him, the one Luthor would have been occupying, had he not been currently incapacitated.

“I’d like to call to order an emergency meeting of LexCorp Incorporated on July 14th, 2022.”

Attendance follows quicker and tenser than usual, with all participants eager to address the elephant in the room. However, once the meeting officially commences, everyone is suddenly hesitant to speak. Annabeth’s eyes dart around. It’s, for lack of a better word, awkward.

Suddenly, Heyeck exhales, a quiet admission of defeat.

“The number of two-week notices the HR department has received in the last few days is staggering,” he admits, “We need to do damage control before it gets worse. We need an interim CEO—”

“Interim?” Lana repeats, incredulous. It’s the first time she’s spoken since the elevator ride up, and she sounds impossibly angry. “For how long? No, we need a long-term solution. Our investors, our global business partners, they’re all furious, and threatening to pull funding or break contracts. They would rather lose millions now than continue to do business with a company whose CEO is being prepared for prison as we speak! If we appoint an interim CEO, they’ll see us as weak—”

“He’s coming back,” Abernathy interrupts and all eyes fall upon her. She looks almost embarrassed by the attention. “I mean, these kinds of scandals happen. I doubt they’ll hold him for long, even if he’s convicted. The interim position, it would only be until Luthor comes back.”

“The man is awaiting trial for the murder of his parents,” Flores says, matter-of-factly, “Even if he is found innocent, due to the nature and size of the scandal, as inadequate as that word is to describe the current situation, it’s unlikely the public will accept him back with open arms.”

“Our stocks will likely never regain their original value,” Heath summarizes for her, uncharacteristically serious.

“Luthor’s been eating away at this company for years,” Markham sneers, “This is the perfect opportunity to save it.”

Across from him, Vaughn clenches his fists and glares. “Luthor is the very reason LexCorp is the empire that it is today. He’s had the guts to do what needed to be done over the years despite you fighting him on every single damn decision!”

Annabeth can feel this meeting start to devolve into a full-blown argument, the two opposing sides boiling over with rage in the face of a crucial moment in LexCorp’s future history.

Lana is fidgeting again, with a small rectangular device Annabeth has seen her turn over in the palm of her hand many times already. As Bauer tries to rein in the near shouting, Annabeth sneaks the other woman a glance, full of question and concern.

Lana meets her eyes, then stares down at her hands.

It’s a strange kind of silent conversation, where both sides believe they know more than the other, but only one is right. Annabeth dangerously walks the line of providing support without showing she knows what she’s providing it for.

Lana gives Annabeth one last long look, before standing up, chair purposefully scratching the hard floor.

“I have something I need to share,” she declares, and suddenly, she’s the center of attention. She flicks open the cap of the flash drive in her grip. “The reporters who wrote the Luthor article had more evidence than they published and shared this with me. I know some of us have had our suspicions, however unbacked, but this should shed some light on the situation.”

Lana plugs the drive into the table and presses a button. There’s a short staticky crackle of sound. Then—

“Your company told me those planes were fine.” The intensity of the familiar voice is jarring, chock-full of hissed rage.

Then, someone else, much softer and hesitant. “Yes, but sir, we mentioned the risk—"

“Minimal!” It comes out as a roar. “You said it was minimal. The replacement material was ill-advised, not prohibited. I read the failure statistics. What I’m hearing, is that you did not do your job correctly.”

“No, no, not at all, sir, we wrote those reports just as you asked.”

“The real reports, you incompetent fool!”

“We apologize for our mistake, I apologize—”

Luthor’s voice is quiet again, but it’s the clearest sound in the room. “The cleanup had better go more smoothly than your initial work, or your company won’t be the only thing I rip from you.”

The recording ends, and Lana retrieves the flash drive before taking her seat once more. With a hand over her mouth in artificial horror, Annabeth drinks in the board of directors once more. It’s not the same set of faces she remembers from her very first meeting. Her assigned scores are no longer accurate, she observes, with a feeling akin to victory. And despite the range in expression, from fright to anger to triumph, every single one is ashen white.

“I think we know what we need to do,” Lana says, softly, “We’ve covered for Luthor too many times. And yes, I will admit that some of those times have brought us great profit, but the risk has proven to be too great. LexCorp stands on its own. This company is not just Luthor’s personal playground.”

She waits for her words to sink in.

Lana doesn’t look towards her, thank the gods, because Annabeth is struggling to hold the full breadth of her emotions in. She feels an immense well of pride towards Lana, and herself, but it's the 'towards' Lana part that surprises her.

“I agree. We cannot do this any longer.” It’s Bauer who speaks, the first of genuinely non-impartial judgments he's shared publicly with the board. "I proposition we terminate Alexander Luthor's status as LexCorp’s CEO.”

The sentence is heavy, but another director seconds it immediately, and it almost feels like the room collectively sighs.

“Before we vote,” Kasten, the financial officer says, “Mr. Heyeck is right. We cannot leave the company headless. But, Ms. Lang is also right, a temporary CEO will not solve our current issues.”

He doesn’t explain further, but everyone in the room understands the implication.

“I nominate Ms. Lang,” Bauer announces.

Several heads swivel to him in shock.

"The work you have put forth in the past few weeks has not gone unnoticed, and neither has your dedication since the start of your employment,” he continues, like the only person in the room he is addressing is Lana, “You’ve played a monumental role in recovery in the wake of recent disasters, and I believe you would make a fine CEO of LexCorp if you choose to accept the nomination."

Lana is in a similar state of shock, but her expression is not one of disbelief. She, too, knows she would do well in the role. Annabeth hides her smile.

“I accept.”

Bauer finally opens his posture to the rest of the room, but he doesn’t have to wait long before two other directors, Tran and Flores, simultaneously second the nomination. Bauer smiles then, only a slight uptick of his lips. He puts the termination of Luthor to vote.

Annabeth has gone over this exact scenario in her head at her first board meeting. Back then, she knew how it would have played out, with no interference on her part. Vaughn, Abernathy, and Heath on one side, Tran, Flores, and Markham on the other. Three versus three, with Bauer being the unpredictable, tie-breaking vote.

Now, the scores have shifted, exactly like she had planned.

Five hands raise in the air, two remain down.

Lex Luthor, fired. Fired.

Annabeth holds in a breathless laugh, but Heyeck lets it out for her, spine curving forward in his chair in visible relief. Vaughn looks severely irritated, as if he had known the outcome and was displeased all the same. Abernathy, on the other hand, looks almost frightened. Annabeth doesn't have the time to decipher that expression, because Bauer speaks up again.

“I put to vote the proposition to elect Lana Lang as full-term LexCorp CEO.”

Six arms go up this time, Vaughn’s hand reluctant to rise, and Annabeth has to squash the urge to raise her own in solidarity.

Lana smiles then, bright and with an energy Annabeth hasn’t seen in weeks. She stands up, delivering a short speech promising the success and prosperity of LexCorp in the months to come. She thanks her colleagues for the opportunity and opens the floor for discussion on how to fully distance the company from its former, soon-to-be convicted criminal CEO and settle workplace distress.

Annabeth leans back in her seat, dutifully taking notes on all the suggestions thrown around for Lana to review later, but she can't stop the smile from overtaking her face. The familiar self-satisfied smile, the one Percy had noticed was missing.

Bauer stops Lana after she finishes a particularly valuable train of thought, with an apology for interrupting. He stretches his arm out, gesturing to the spot across from him, and she stands, walking over.

Annabeth’s been snipping away at LexCorp’s threads, here and there, slowly, carefully, precisely choosing her stitches. Finally, the time is here. With one sharp tug, Luthor’s hold on the company unravels completely.

Lana takes her seat at the table.

Chapter Text

Annabeth wraps the tape around her wrist, then up and through the space between each of her fingers, before securing them with a round over her knuckles. As she clenches her fist experimentally, her gaze drifts to the television at the corner of the ceiling.

“Here’s a message to the viewers at home, the rumors about the release of new education technology by Way—”

"Honestly, I doubt that's of interest to anyone right now. We all want to know about the Luthor scandal. Where are we with that? Any breaking news?

“You’re such a gossip, Viola—”

“I’m a news anchor, Clarence.”

“—But I’ll tell you what I’ve heard, straight from the courts. Luthor pleaded not guilty at the arraignment.”

“Not guilty? Come on, we’ve all read that article, even my nephew and he’s ten! When have you ever seen Lois Lane’s name on the byline of something she hadn’t vetted herself? She took down that trafficking ring last year by literally going undercover.”

“My reaction exactly! They’re holding him until he goes to trial on the 29th. That’s next Friday folks, only ten days until Lex Luthor stands before the jury to pay for his alleged sins. Fastest date I’ve ever seen, that’s for sure, the courts must be working overtime on this one. Ha!”

“So what, no bail?”

There’s a brief pause before both news anchors burst into laughter.

“No, Viola, I don’t think they’re letting the billionaire with a private jet go on vacation before his trial."

The man shakes his head, still smiling good-naturedly.

“I met him a couple of weeks ago, at that children’s fundraising gala he hosted, and he was so, well I hate to say it, but charming. You think you know a guy, Viola, and then—”

“He turns out to be a homicidal maniac? Been there, Clarence, and far more often than you’d think.”

Annabeth snorts at the screen. Reports like these, led by television personalities with varying levels of seriousness, have been playing since late last week. She muses on how long it will be before they start to discuss LexCorp’s new management instead. It’s only been a day since Luthor had been officially fired, but she expects the rumors to start circulating soon, and for the company to put out an official announcement within the next few days. Not for the first time, she wonders if jail cells get cable.

“Chase!”

The voice is almost demanding and blinks Annabeth out of her thoughts. A woman with pulled-back short braids beckons her with a tilted head and a sharp smile. “Another round?”

“Two losses aren’t enough for you?” Annabeth teases back, earning a scoff.

She shakes her mind free of Luthor for now, sets her shoulders back, and steps into the ring.

On Wednesday after work, hair pulled and pinned back tight, Annabeth makes the walk to Caesar Contemporary under the safety of a dark shapeless hoodie and her invisibility cap. Slipping in behind an exiting patron, she finds the bathroom first and settles into a chair. It’s one of those high-end restrooms, with a small powder room preceding the main stall area, the interior decorated similarly to the glimpse she'd caught of the museum upon entry.

From the outside, Caesar Contemporary hadn’t been much to look at, an assuming eggshell white building with two columns caging in the entrance. Most museums had some sort of exterior stonework or detailed carving depicting the type of pieces that lay inside but this one had none of that. It even lacked the usual minimalistic Luthor touch she has come to associate with his office and home. The word, unmemorable, comes to Annabeth’s mind.

A glance at her watch signifies that it is fifteen minutes past closing. A pair of stout footsteps echo down the hall, stopping outside the bathroom. The door opens, and a dim flashlight traces the edges of the room before the guard switches off the ceiling lights and disappears around the corner. Annabeth waits another fifteen minutes, then makes her move.

The museum is dark, moonlight filtering through the large, windowed roof and casting long slanted shadows along the walls. Leo isn’t here today to disable the cameras, something about her siblings needing his fire powers for their war games strategy (which, naturally, takes precedence over this) so Annabeth keeps her flashlight hidden away in her backpack and slinks along the granite floor, eyes narrow.

She passes a few rooms of scattered paintings, a mash of abstract expressionism and photorealism, the light too dim to study them extensively. It doesn’t seem like there’s much to look at anyways. The art is beautiful, but nothing about the gallery feels out of the ordinary. Moderately tall ceilings, open archways between rooms, and sculpture centerpieces. Annabeth takes it all in, before moving on.

Somewhere deeper into the museum, she finds the entrance to another room. She peers close at the bronze plaque, brushing her fingers against it. Hall of Heroes. Annabeth furrows her brow and walks through the archway.

The room is shaped like an octagon, with enormous fifteen-foot statues lining seven of the eight sides. A trickle of dread makes its way down her spine as she circles the space. Even without the written descriptions at the bases, she recognizes these people. Genghis Khan, Al Capone, Blackbeard.

If she had had any doubt about Luthor’s involvement with the museum, it vanishes in an instant. Hall of heroes, how dare he, Annabeth thinks viciously.

Closer to the door, one of Benedict Arnold sneers at some invisible enemy. Annabeth glances at it, distastefully, before turning once more, and stops in her tracks.

Overcoming her surprise, she steps closer to the new statue. It’s hard to examine the details in the faint moonlight, but Annabeth knows for a fact that it’s fake.

It’s a carbon copy of a statue she had seen only days ago, in Luthor’s office, exactly the same, from the material to its pose, hand outstretched in an inviting gesture. The other Julius Caesar was real. Luthor would not display anything but genuine, authenticated art in his private home, which means this one must be a forgery. An imitation. But why?

Annabeth circles the statue. There’s something off about it all, she can almost feel it when she walks. As she racks her brain, the clouds above her shift and the full force of the moon shines through the roof. The crystallized specks in the granite glow in response. As she watches them dim once again, Annabeth sees it.

Every other statue in the room is perfectly aligned within a tile, with another starting a foot away from the bases and leading into the center of the room, where several points come together. But the flooring in front of Caesar is unbroken, a single, long slab of granite in the shape of a triangle. It’s the only difference among the otherwise symmetric layout.

She stands in front of the peculiar statue once more. Luthor had financed Caesar Contemporary under the name Julian Alarie. This has to be the key.

Annabeth frowns and tries to imagine Luthor standing in this very room, admiring the sculpted forms of his so-called heroes. She leans forward on her toes, lifting herself up. Luthor is only a few inches taller than her current height. The statue’s arm floats inches from her face. Follow me, he seems to say, staring down at her.

Annabeth stares back.

Oh.

She reaches out and grasps the stone, the elbow joint giving way, ever so slightly. Heart beating faster than usual, Annabeth wraps her fingers tighter and, with more force than before, shakes Julius Caesar’s cold hand.

Suddenly, the tile below her hisses and sinks further into the rest of the floor, almost causing her to stumble. The pane under her feet starts to slide back, and Annabeth lets herself be shifted along until another platform reveals itself underneath, with a tunnel-like opening in the center. She steps onto the new surface and peers down the hole.

All of a sudden, all Annabeth sees is the darkness, smells the putrid odor of acid, and tastes the smoke and burnt flesh on her tongue. She’s whipped back in time, three years ago to a place she has spent hundreds of hours healing from. One moment is all it takes for all that time and effort to instantly melt away, leaving Annabeth shock-still. Her breath quickens. This time, there’s no Percy, no heavy warm weight to keep her grounded, no flicker of hope, no—

No. Annabeth blinks, hard.

Then again, furiously this time, dispelling those thoughts as quickly as they had come.

This is not Tartarus.

This is a megalomaniac’s pathetic excuse for an evil lair, and she has work to do.

Cautiously lowers a foot and finding a hidden step, Annabeth takes a deep breath and descends into the darkness.

Every muscle in her body pulled tight, she makes her way down the staircase, an endless circle of left turns. Slowly, the air around her lightens, and she can make out the steps in front of her. When both of her feet touch level ground, she hears the heavy scraping of the granite above, sliding shut.

Her surroundings mirror the octagonal room from upstairs, but with two open archways instead of one, opposite each other, leading the way to unknown areas. Pale florescent lights line the ceilings, letting her see far better down here than up there. There are no visible cameras here, but Annabeth doesn’t dare to remove her hat. Adjusting her backpack, she ventures through the opening on the right.

Luthor’s lair is strikingly empty, is what she finds. The layout resembles the museum, with its spacious rooms separated by narrow open doorways. She passes some extremely futuristic-looking computers and another room with a large glass casing bathed in green light. She doesn’t know what it means but the entire sight makes her shiver. It’s not what she’s looking for, though.

Annabeth turns another corner and nearly has a heart attack.

Across her, near the back wall is a tall, looming statue of Lex Luthor, face etched with lines sharper than the man himself possesses. The bronze base is identical to the ones resting above her in the hall of heroes. Annabeth’s face folds in incredulous disgust. Did Luthor…plan on adding his statue to the exhibit?

Keeping an eye on it until it leaves her field of vision, she continues on. Approximately near where the bathroom is located in the museum above, Annabeth finds a stairwell and peeks down the railing. Two more floors lay below her. She sets her shoulders back and descends further.

Level two of Luthor’s lair resembles LexCorp’s R&D labs. The hallways are laid out in a vaguely gridded system that might confuse some, but Annabeth has walked the research floors at her place of work many times and investigates with efficiency. She passes many closed doors, labeled laboratories or storage or testing rooms, and she wants so badly to peek into them all, document every last one of Luthor’s dirty little secrets, but Annabeth reminds herself that she’s here for one specific thing. The actual exploring can come later.

After she covers the second floor, and her search proves unfruitful, she crosses her fingers and goes down the last flight of stairs.

Level three has no visible pattern in its layout. Far creepier than its predecessors, Annabeth thinks it resembles a cross between a basement boiler room and a graveyard of scrapped technology.

She steps over thick corded wires and rusted piping, winding her way around large steel boxes and indistinguishable shapes of metal. Behind every new door is another surprise, another room filled with abandoned inventions. It's a shame Leo missed this, Annabeth thinks. But she can hardly contain her own curiosity so maybe letting the son of Hephaestus sit this one out was a small blessing.

Whatever she’s looking for, it must be on this floor. If she’s right, Luthor had only used it once, more than a few years ago, so it only makes sense for it to be lumped together with the other secrets buried in this cemetery.

Annabeth slinks down a new hallway, deeper into the unknown. Down here, the lights flicker eerily. The walls are coated in a thick layer of dust, and her feet crunch along the unfinished flooring. Her eyes start to water from the unfiltered air. She comes across a strange outline in the wall, shaped almost like a door, but like it’s been sealed shut for years. There’s no handle, however, so she continues on.

Somewhere in the tens of doors that she's opened, her hand turns yet another handle, and it catches her eye instantly. She hadn’t known exactly what it would look like, but something in her gut tells her this is the one. A large, boxed computer sits on a rolling stand, wheels locked into place, with a hefty crane-like structure protruding out from the back and folding over its front. Suspending from the tip of it hangs a thick cylindrical tube. Annabeth reaches out and dusts off the glass casing, revealing four vertical metal rods and heavy wiring between them. Underneath the cylinder, there are six sharp prongs, arranged in a circle facing down towards the ground.

Annabeth takes as many pictures of the machine on her phone as she can, from every possible angle, before approaching the computer. Although several of the thicker cables extending from the back of the machine remain unplugged, the monitor display lights up after pressing a few buttons. After reaching into her backpack for two objects, she places her glasses on her nose and inserts a flash drive into one of the many grooves along the side of the screen.

EventData
    EventDate 01-16-2017
    SubjectUserId LEX-RFNN743d9H2
    AuthenticationPackage 0x05a2d4
    TaskCategory Testing
    TargetLocationName Gorman, CA, USA
    TargetCoordinates 34.81, -118.83
    TaskStatus Fail
    FailureReason %%3754
    TargetMagnitude 2.5
EventData
    EventDate 02-07-2017
    SubjectUserId LEX-RFNN743d9H2
    AuthenticationPackage 0x05a4c2
    TaskCategory Testing
    TargetLocationName Point Reyes, CA, USA
    TargetCoordinates 38.07, -122.81
    TaskStatus Success
    FailureReason %%0000
    TargetMagnitude 4.0
EventData
    EventDate 03-13-2017
    SubjectUserId LEX-RFNN743d9H2
    AuthenticationPackage 0x05a7b6
    TaskCategory Deployment
    TargetLocationName Odawara, Japan
    TargetCoordinates 35.26, 139.17
    TaskStatus Success
    FailureReason %%0000
    TargetMagnitude 6.9

Annabeth grins sharply as she reads through the event logs, despite what it means about what Luthor has done. She presses a few more keys and a loading bar pops up, green slowly overtaking beige. When the download is complete, Annabeth pockets the drive and finally, finally feels like she can breathe again.

She knows she had been right all along, but the proof in her hands is a comfort she’s been waiting for. When she’s done, she thinks, with a vicious streak she reserves for a special few, he’s going to be buried, forgotten like a bad memory, and left to rust, just like the rest of the junk down here.

As Annabeth pads up a flight of stairs to return to the makeshift laboratories, she hears it, her first mistake.

A brief sound of something akin to scraping metal, so quiet her demigod hearing just barely picks it up. She stops in her place, the hair on her arms ramrod straight, gut blaring danger alarms like a persistent siren. It had come from above her, echoing faintly through the open stairwell.

She reaches towards her head in paranoid habit. Her hat is still there. On the balls of her feet, Annabeth slowly makes her way to the first floor.

Her ears twitch at a few more sounds, too soft to distinguish, but she follows them anyway, sticking close to the walls and corners. There are no doors up here, which is both a blessing and a curse. She avoids being heard entering a room, but the possibility of being snuck up upon is much higher than she is comfortable with.

As she gets closer to the source, she can make out brief heavy footsteps and the sound of ragged breathing.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you are here.”

Annabeth’s blood freezes.

“I learned something interesting the other day. Would you like to hear it?”

He’s here. Luthor is here. Her heart drops. He’s supposed to be detained, in custody, awaiting trial. How did he get here? How did he get out? Why—

Annabeth hears another shaky inhale. With an anxious hand on her head, she peeks around the corner.

There he stands, in an immaculately ironed suit, looking nothing like he had just been arrested, nothing like the orange-style jumpsuit she had been imagining. The overhead lights cast harsh shadows on his cheek, and although Annabeth cannot see his full expression, Luthor’s profile is deceivingly calm. On his right side, he’s flanked by a male guard in angry black clothing. Armed at least thrice over, his face betrays no emotion.

Only a few feet across from Luthor is another man in a chair, with wrists and feet zip tied to the armrests. There’s a bruise across his left cheek, another spotting his left temple, and his breaths are coming in short gasps like he’s been hit in the stomach.

Annabeth should leave, turn and flee right now, back up to the museum while she still can. But, looking on in horror, she knows she cannot.

Luthor presses something on a phone and the voice recording of him with the safety company, the one Annabeth had slipped to Clark, who in turn had given to Lana, fills the air for just a few seconds before he mutes it once more.

“This phone call was recorded from my home,” Luthor says, softly, “You see how that is an invasion of privacy, don’t you?”

The man in the chair nods hesitantly along.

Annabeth’s eyes widen unconsciously. Where had he gotten that? He couldn’t—someone had to have given it to him. But who? Only a handful of people even know it exists, so…

He’s coming back.

Annabeth grits her teeth at the memory. Abernathy.

“It’s interesting, you see,” Luthor continues, as if he doesn’t see the man captive before him, “I was in my office, alone, everything exactly how I had left it. No one in or out. The only new variable had been my clothing. You see, I had bought a new suit for the gala that evening, which, bears no effect on the situation, except,” he pauses, “for that fact that I had checked my coat that night.”

Realization dawns on Annabeth at the same time as it does on the bound man, both faces paling rapidly.

“I had left it, unattended, at a location you were meant to be guarding.”

She remembers those hooded eyes, blinking in and out of focus as she called upon the mist, the curved shape of the chin she had slammed her head into. She had forgotten, but Annabeth recognizes him now.

Luthor leans down into the man’s space, not touching him, but close enough to watch the lump in his throat bob with fear.

“That’s no coincidence, is it?”

“I didn’t touch your jacket,” the man gasps, before Luthor even lifts a finger, “I swear!”

Luthor studies the man for a moment. "If you didn't," he muses, "Then someone did. What did you see?”

Cowering in Luthor’s gaze, the man’s eyes dart back and forth. “Nothing, I think,” he stammers out.

“Think?” Luthor’s eyes flash dangerously.

“No, I know, I didn’t see anything!”

Luthor steps back. The guard on the right takes his place without instruction, slugging the captive across the face, no doubt darkening his existing bruise. Annabeth clenches her jaw and her fists but remains still.

“I’m not going to ask you again.”

“I swear! I didn’t, I-I, some things about that night are a bit hazy, but only because it was so long ago. I didn’t see anything!”

The guard lands another hit, to the stomach. The man’s head lolls forward as he continues to mutter denials. Every muscle in Annabeth’s body is on high alert. It’s okay, she tells herself, the mist will hold, the mist will hold, and Luthor will see that he doesn’t know anything and release him. The mist will hold, it has to.

“I don’t think you understand the severity of the situation,” Luthor says, his tone soft again.

Annabeth doesn’t like what that means.

Luthor takes another small step back and is joined by second, taller guard who emerges from another doorway, yanking a small, bound, child beside him. He tugs her further forward, and she falls in front of Luthor’s feet.

She looks up and then towards the captive with red-rimmed and tear-streaked eyes. Immediately, the man’s demeanor flips, and he tries to lurch forward, but the restraints hold him back. He tries again, muscles straining in vain against the ties.

“Get away from her!” he shouts, “Don’t touch her!”

Luthor stares back, cold and indifferent and completely apathetic. He jerks his head slightly to the left. The guard who brought the girl in reaches back, unsheathing a gun from its holster. He brings it forward and levels it against the girl’s head, as her father stares on in horror.

“Please,” the man begs, “Please, don’t.”

“What did you see?” Luthor repeats, unaffected.

The guard cocks the gun.

At that exact moment, Annabeth acknowledges the fact she hadn't wanted to all along. Spurring into action, she scrambles furiously for a distraction, something, anything.

"I, okay, I—" The man's breaths come faster now. He squeezes his eyes tightly. He blinks rapidly. He squeezes and opens them again, "I think, I saw someone. I don't—"

The guard digs the pistol harder against the girl’s skull, making her whimper.

Annabeth reaches into her backpack, trying desperately not to make noise.

The man repeats the motions with his eyelids again, straining them so hard that veins start to appear on his forehead.

“They were—fiddling with a jacket, yours—”

“Who?” Luthor growls.

The child starts to sob quietly.

Annabeth retrieves her target, hands shaking, and aims it.

“A woman,” the man gasps, the mist finally shattering under the pressure of pure desperation, “She had—”

Suddenly, the guard holding his gun to the girl slaps a hand over his eye, and, instantly, trains his weapon on the spot around the corner where Annabeth stands, quietly, clutching her now switched-off flashlight. She backs away, slowly.

“What is it?” Luthor hisses, turning to face Annabeth’s hiding spot, “Is someone there?”

“A light flashed in my eye, sir,” the guard responds, carefully neutral, creeping towards the source, towards her.

The shorter guard steps in front of Luthor, gun drawn, and waits for any sign of a threat. Luthor allows himself to be protected, but Annabeth can see he’s doing his own scan of the area.

The man in the chair presses his lips together, trying to calm his crying daughter with a reassuring look.

Once out of the first guard’s direct line of sight, Annabeth walks slowly, keeping her footsteps just barely audible, to the opposite end of the floor, turning right and left, then right again. Only the first guard follows, a few paces behind, gun out.

Annabeth reaches her destination, the statue of Luthor, and slips into the space between its back and the wall. The guard comes into view, surveying the room. After clearing it, he moves to leave down the hallway, but Annabeth reaches out and drags a fingernail down the stone. A squeaky screech fills the air, and the man whips his head around to the statue.

Annabeth holds her breath. He creeps closer.

At just the right moment, she shoves, hard.

The statue teeters forward, and although the guard attempts to scramble backward to avoid it, Luthor’s stone body falls on top of him. His back thuds to the ground with a groan, pinned into place, and the limbs of the rock crack loudly against the concrete floor, breaking into pieces around him.

Annabeth turns and sprints back.

As she does, she hears Luthor and the other guard’s feet, stampeding down the hall towards the sound of fallen stone.

When she reaches her original hiding spot, she sees the little girl, crawling into her father’s lap. He tries to hug her, but his wrists remain firmly bound, as much as the girl tugs to free them.

“You imbecile,” Luthor’s voice thunders from several rooms in the distance, shaking the metaphorical rafters, and causing both the man and his daughter to wince.

“Hey,” Annabeth whispers, trying to startle them as little as possible, “Come with me.”

The man bolts in his seat, frantically looking around.

“Who’s there?”

“Shh! He’ll hear you. Now hold still.”

He freezes not at the command, but in fear. It's good enough. Annabeth grabs the steel dagger at her hip, gingerly wiggles it under the plastic, and slices through. She repeats the movements for the other wrist and both feet.

The man immediately scoops up his daughter, holding her against his shoulder, closing his eyes in relief for a moment.

“Let’s go,” Annabeth insists, “He’s going to return any minute.”

“Who are you?” he repeats, eyes flicking left and right, “I don’t even know—”

Oh, for gods’ sake, they don’t have time for this. She doesn’t know how long Luthor will mourn his larger-than-life replica. She rips the Yankees cap off her head.

“You’re her, the one in the coatroom,” the man whispers, eyes wide. His daughter mumbles ‘ghost’ into his neck.

“Explanations later,” she practically hisses, “Escape first. This way.”

Annabeth drags him out of the room and down another hall and he follows without much protest. It's mostly from shock, but she'll take what she can get.

They turn another corner. Annabeth can see the spiral staircase in her sight, beyond one more open archway.

“The exit,” the man inhales sharply.

He takes a step forward, but Annabeth’s ears twitch and she pulls him back by the back of his shirt, just in time to miss Luthor and the remaining guard enter from the opposite doorway.

“I don’t know how he got loose, but if he thinks he can escape…” Luthor seethes out loud, pressing both of his hands roughly against the outline of a rectangle along the wall, “Initiate lockdown.”

The staircase spirals down into the ground sharply, a floor panel hissing closed.

“Find them,” Luthor snarls into thin air, then gestures to his guard to follow him back the way they came.

“We’re going to die in here,” the man beside her mutters quietly, back against the wall, then seems to regret it when his daughter’s grip tightens around his neck.

“No.” Annabeth sets her jaw. “I’m getting us out of here.”

The man fixes her with an incredulous and angry look.

“I don’t even know you. You’re the one who got me into this whole thing, planting some bug in his jacket, and for what?”

Annabeth opens her mouth.

“Actually, don’t tell me. I’d be worse off,” he grits, holding tighter to his daughter.

“I wasn’t going to,” Annabeth snaps.

Then, she takes a deep breath. She isn’t mad at him, she’s just frustrated and worried, and more than a little guilty for her part in all this.

“Listen,” she begins, calmer, “If you stay here, Luthor’s going to kill you both. No matter how much information you give him, he’s not going to let you go. I’m your best chance at getting you, both of you, out alive.”

He stares at her for enough time that Annabeth gets antsy. Luthor’s footsteps are still very distant, but she can’t stay here for long like a sitting duck. The floors are expansive, full of winding routes a person could get lost in, but the walls feel suffocatingly small.

“Okay,” he says, finally, through clenched teeth, “How are we going to do this?”

Annabeth scans the octagonal room that used to hold the staircase.

“When Luthor pressed his hands against that wall, I think he used a biometric scan to lock this place down. He’s the only one who can open it back up.”

“He’ll never do that,” the man argues.

“I know,” she says, frustratedly, “I need to think, but not here. Too much open space.” Her eyes look left and right. “We have to go down to the second floor.”

“Away from our only possible exit?” he demands in a hushed whisper, shifting his daughter to the other arm, “Are you insane?”

“It’s not exactly an exit right now, is it?” Annabeth shoots back, “Besides, would you rather stay here? With Luthor and his trigger-happy guard dogs?”

The man purses his lips but relents at her glare.

“Lead the way.”

Annabeth gestures silently down a long hallway. Her companion follows, reluctantly, but he follows, nonetheless. Annabeth has gotten them this far and he knows he has no other choice.

She holds up her fist and he stops in his tracks. A quick glance around the corner and Annabeth unclenches her hand, continuing on. Finally, she reaches a specific door, quietly clicking it open and, after the man and his daughter enters, closing it just as softly.

“We’re safe here for a little bit,” she says, listening for any distant noise and thankfully finding none. “It’ll take a few minutes for Luthor to clear the top floor. Two points of entry, if he comes here, he’ll likely come through this one.” She points to the door they had used. “And we flee through the other.”

The man nods, unconvinced, but he doesn’t argue it either. With some distance between them and Luthor, however temporary, he’s more jaded than he was previously. He’s angry, she can see that much, but he doesn’t voice it. Whether that’s because he doesn’t want to give away their location or because he’s too preoccupied with worry to let it out, Annabeth can’t tell.

He finally sets his daughter down, and she immediately wraps her arms around one of his legs, wiping the still-falling tears on his pant leg.

Annabeth channels as much of her camp counselor personality as she can and stoops with what she hopes is a comforting smile. “I’m Annabeth,” she offers, “What’s your name?”

The girl stares her down, almost exactly like her father had, but with her own criteria for analysis. Whatever she’s looking for in Annabeth’s face, she finds it.

“Cecilia,” she says finally, and tugs on her father’s pants.

The man grunts. “Hector.”

Annabeth gives him a look of acknowledgment that he doesn’t return.

“Are you a ghost?” Cecilia asks, rubbing a hand to her already red eyes, “Sometimes here, sometimes not?”

Annabeth laughs as best as she can in their current situation. “No, I’m not.”

“She’s a meta, mija,” Hector explains curtly.

Annabeth eyes him but doesn’t dispute it. “You know what’s cool,” she says instead, unhooking the carabiner that holds her Yankees cap, “I can share my power.”

She leans over, grasping the girl’s hand, and places the hat over her hair. Cecilia disappears, and her father startles, but before he can panic any further, Annabeth pulls it off and reclips it to her pants. She looks knowingly at the girl, who giggles.

Hector’s expression softens at the sight of her delight, finally loosening his scowl. Annabeth straightens and returns to her usual demeanor. Checking again for footsteps and hearing nothing, her mind whirls through all possible ways to escape this makeshift prison.

Plan A. Knock Luthor out and use his unconscious body to open the door. While a clean and efficient option, both guards and probably Luthor are armed with guns, and getting close enough might be tricky. Not to mention, if they need a voice command, they'd be screwed.

Plan B. Make Luthor believe they’ve escaped so he has to lift the lockdown to chase them. If the distraction is successful, they would have a near-guaranteed exit. Unfortunately, there's only one exit and she cannot think of a single way to fake passage through it.

Plan C. Keep avoiding him down here until Luthor gets tired and leaves. This one has virtually no pros and an uncountable list of cons.

Annabeth chews her lip. No water for drachmas, no cell reception this far underground, no outside help. They’re on their own.

“Okay, we’ve got a couple of options,” she says.

Annabeth gives him the summary of their choices, and Hector’s frown sinks deeper with every passing sentence.

"The first one is our best bet right now," she explains, weighing the choices, “Which means we need to take out the guards.”

“You got one, right?” he asks, quietly, “I think I heard it.”

Annabeth almost nods, but then shakes her head. “Temporarily, I’m guessing. Worst case, we’re set for three against two. We’re not splitting up because there’s no way to guarantee we’ll be able to reconvene, and I can navigate us better. No offense,” she tacks on hastily, but his agitation neither lessens nor worsens. “Can you fight?”

Hector stares at his hands. “I’m a good shot,” he admits, through pursed lips, “But I don’t know if I can take them one on one.”

“That’s, okay,” Annabeth frowns. It’s not ideal, but she’ll have to make do. “I’ll get you a gun.”

He scoffs disbelievingly at her statement, running a frustrated hand over his stubbled chin.

Annabeth’s clenched jaw wants to remain shut, but she forces it open.

“Look, I—,” she pauses to try again, “I’m sorry.” Hector keeps his eyes trained on his daughter. “I’m the reason you’re in this situation. I didn’t mean to, and I didn’t think of the consequences. I should have, but I… I made a mistake. And I’m not asking you to forgive me, I don’t need that. What I need is for you to trust me, just for a short while.”

There’s a lot more she could say, about how she hadn’t meant for it to play out this way, how she hadn’t meant for Luthor to sneak out from detainment, or to make the connection between the jacket and the recording, or to kidnap his daughter as leverage. She hadn’t meant for any of this, but that doesn’t matter now. It had all happened anyways. Annabeth keeps those excuses out of her mouth.

When Hector looks up at her, he looks less angry and more resigned. Distress adorns the corners of his downturned lips, but instead of lashing out, he settles his hand on Cecilia’s head.

“You said you would get us out,” he says, “Make good on that promise.”

Annabeth gives him a short, decisive nod.

“The guards,” she pivots, getting back on track, “I threw a statue at the taller one, so if he’s back in action, he’ll be slightly injured. At the very least, he’ll move a little slower, with a limp if we’re lucky. The other will be with Luthor.”

“Are you sure about that?” he asks, brow creasing.

“Positive. Luthor’s priority right now is to find you, not stop you from escaping. He might not know about me, but he definitely suspects you have help, so one of the guards will stay with him as they search, just in case.”

“You want us to get to the injured one first?” Hector confirms.

Annabeth nods.

“If he’s still incapacitated, we grab his gear, if not, I’ll take him.”

The man considers this. “Okay, then how will we separate Luthor from—”

Annabeth’s hand shoots up in a wordless gesture, and Hector immediately shuts his mouth. She tilts her head. Somewhere down the hall, there’s the quiet squeak of rubber against laminate flooring, occurring too often for it to be from a single person.

“They’re here,” she whispers gravely, “Switch to C.”

Hector spurs into action, hoisting Cecilia, who despite her still frightened state remains thankfully silent, up to his shoulder. Annabeth turns the doorknob on the second door, ushers them in, and clicks it closed.

Unlike the other, this room is dark, with a switch on the wall she ignores, lest the light seeps underneath the door and gives away their position. Annabeth and Hector walk quietly through a small maze of file cabinets to the opposite wall, using their hands to feel around for obstacles.

“Calma, mija, we’re going to be okay,” he murmurs quietly to Cecilia.

Behind them, Annabeth sees the vague shape of his free arm come up to brush his daughter’s cheek.

She sucks in her breath. “Wait—”

Without his hand to scope out his surroundings, Hector’s foot bangs noisily against a cabinet, the hollow metal casing echoing around them in warped waves. He freezes.

The front door in the previous room slams open, and Annabeth hears Luthor’s angry order to follow that sound.

“Go, go,” Annabeth nearly yells under her breath.

She pushes against Hector’s back, spurring him into action. They dash through the last few cabinets, accidentally bumping into a few more, but at this point, they've abandoned all pretense of staying silent.

The storage room spits them out into another hallway. Annabeth drags Hector and Cecilia all the way down to the end, as far she can get them, and jerks open another door, shutting it moments before Luthor and his guard emerge from the same dark room.

Annabeth crosses their new hiding spot, a workshop, to exit through the opposite way.

“Hades, it’s locked,” she curses, viciously. She pulls harder, but the bolt, the knob, and the door are all metal, and it doesn’t give way.

“What?” Hector echoes, rushing to join her. A door in the distance, the way they had come from, opens, and this time they both hear it. “I think, I could pick the lock,” he stammers, “But I don’t have—”

Annabeth reaches up and yanks two bobby pins out of her hair, a few blonde curls falling loose. Hector takes them, prying one apart, and bending the back of the other down.

Cecilia flits nervously around his crouched body, and Annabeth holds herself back from doing the same, instead alternating her attention between listening for Luthor and watching Hector fiddle with the pins.

Another door in the distance opens. Luthor and his guard are checking each room in the hallway one by one. It won’t be long before he reaches them, and there’s no way out but through.

Her companion’s grip slips, the makeshift tension lever falling out of the lock. He fumbles to pick it up, hands sweaty.

“Hector,” Annabeth warns.

“I just—need more time,” he grunts, trying again.

We don’t have any, she almost snaps, but stops herself. That won’t help him.

Biting her tongue, Annabeth darts around the workshop for something that might. There’s a 3D printer in the corner, a sanding table, glass cabinets filled with circuit boards and wiring, and heaps of scrap metal. Near the latter, she sees a cylindrical object, almost two feet tall. An idea strikes her.

One that will work, but might really trap them in here.

Only a door or two down, Luthor kicks something in frustration, and she hears the sound of it shattering. Annabeth refuses to meet her end down here. This can’t be the way she goes out, alone and isolated, outwitted by some mortal psychopath. The dagger at her hip grows heavy.

She could take them, take Luthor and take the guard. She hasn’t trained her whole life for nothing. It might ruin months of hard work, but she could do it. Dodge the first shot, throw the knife, follow it up with several swift blows to the chest. She can’t control all the variables, all the flying bullets in the small room, but she knows she can make it out.

From her father’s side, Cecilia looks back at her, her bottom lip wobbling. Annabeth sets her jaw. She has trained her whole life, but not for this, not to just survive.

Annabeth makes her decision.

“Whatever happens,” she calls out to Hector, “Don’t stop.”

She turns the gas knob on the device slightly to the left and presses down on a button with her index finger. A small blue flame shoots out, and approaching the side they had come in, Annabeth holds the blowtorch up to the metal doorknob.

She hears the door directly across the hall open, quiet footsteps shuffling in. She turns the heat a notch higher. A few moments later, she hears the steps return, the dull thuds stopping closer than the squeaks.

“Last one, sir,” a male voice says.

“Indeed.”

At Luthor’s cold acknowledgment, Annabeth releases her hold on the flame and backs away slowly, still keeping it raised. She positions herself between the door and Hector’s form. The clicking of pins continues in her ear, and when she allows a small glance back, she sees a bead of sweat drip down his forehead.

All of a sudden, Luthor howls in pain, and something heavy thuds against the other side of the door. Annabeth jumps slightly even though she had been expecting it, but Hector, paying heed to her earlier instruction, jams the bobby pin further into the lock.

“Open that damned door!” Luthor shouts to his guard.

Annabeth hadn’t had enough time with the torch as she had hoped, which means the heat was fading, and Luthor would—

Hector gasps, and Annabeth does not hesitate to whirl around and flee through the now-unlocked door. She uses a precious second to re-bolt it behind her, racing down the new hallway, Hector and Cecilia at her heels.

“This way,” she gasps out, making a swift right. Behind her, Hector heaves with exertion, but the adrenaline rush helps him keep up.

As if in slow motion, she sees the handle on a nearby door turn. They break left almost immediately after and Annabeth flattens herself against the corner, grabbing Hector’s arm to stop him from going further. He opens his mouth to ask about the holdup, but then he hears the footsteps too, and his eyes widen. She holds her hand up in a wait gesture, before unclipping her hat and disappearing under it.

Hector tucks his daughter’s face into his neck and stays perfectly still.

Annabeth readies the torch, steeling herself, and as soon as a dark figure rounds the corner, she holds down the button and aims.

The previously injured guard gasps and doubles over at the sudden white-hot pain, but she doesn’t give him any time to recover. Releasing the pressure on the torch, she knees him in the stomach, snatches the gun from his flailing fingers, and slams the cool metal to the back of his hunched neck. He crumples instantly.

Annabeth shoves the gun into the back of her waistband and uses a free hand to rip off her cap. Hector stares at the guard’s unconscious body, stunned, but after a barked order, follows her lead back into the maze of hallways.

Their new hiding spot is only a door down from the first room they had camped out in, based on the slightly idealistic thought that Luthor would assume they would go somewhere new. Annabeth knows it won’t fool him for long, but it’s all she can think of at the moment.

She allows herself a few precious breaths to calm her heartbeat, before reaching back and retrieving the gun she had stolen. She holds it out to Hector, but he just stares at the pistol.

“What did you do?” he breathes.

Annabeth’s chest curls with a bitter, defensive feeling.

“The guard will be fine,” she snaps, “It was on the lowest heat setting and he was wearing multiple layers.”

“To Luthor,” he clarifies, a look of horror slowly dawning upon him, “You burned him, his hand, oh god, our exit—”

“I didn’t have—,” Annabeth shakes her head firmly, “I made a tactical choice.”

“To trap us in here forever?” Hector demands. Cecilia sniffles, but this time he ignores her. “What if there’s permanent damage? The biometric lock, it won’t open, and then we’ll—”

Annabeth’s hand shakes around the gun. “I was trying to help. If I hadn’t, Luthor would have opened that door and shot you on sight, why can’t you see that?”

“Right, like I’m going to believe a word out of your mouth when you’re the reason we’re here in the first place!” Hector lashes out, his rising fury making him dangerously loud.

“I did it to save your daughter!”

There’s a brief, tense moment of silence. Cecilia lets out a wet sob, balled-up fists coming up to press against her eyes.

The angry atmosphere melts, Hector kneeling down to pull her into a hug. Annabeth finally notices how would up she had gotten, and gingerly places the gun on a countertop beside her.

“I’m scared,” the girl wails, “I just wanna go home!”

Hector murmurs soft platitudes into his daughter’s hair, picking his head up once to send Annabeth a look that’s conflictingly grateful and distraught all at the same time. She closes her eyes briefly in exhaustion.

“Please, if we get home, I’ll be good, I promise! I’ll-I’ll eat all my vegetables,” the girl cries softly into Hector’s neck, hiccupping between words. He tries to hush her, but she’s on a roll now, pleading to some unknown deity, “I’ll do all my homework, even the math ones, and-and I won’t cry when I have to go to school, even if I see the weird people.”

It’s painfully reminiscent of prayers she’s heard at camp, of her siblings and pseudo-cousins sharing all the perfectly ordinary things they're excited about, if they just make it through this one fight and get to go home.

“Weird people?” Annabeth says, trying to distract herself from the lump in her throat.

“They have one eye,” Cecilia mumbles, and her father sighs and mutters something about an overactive imagination.

And suddenly Annabeth stands ramrod straight.

“Is her mom in the picture?” she asks.

Hector sends her a disbelieving look and doesn’t answer, so she repeats the question, insistently.

“No, she passed a few years ago,” he replies, voice hard, “What—”

“And she was the biological mother?” Annabeth presses.

“I’d think so, I watched her give birth,” he answers, glaring, “What is your problem?”

Annabeth ignores him, mind swimming with new information.

She slings the backpack off of her shoulders, and unzips it, pulling out her preferred knife. Resting it in the palms of her hands, she bends down to Cecilia’s level. The girl’s eyes widen with curiosity. The celestial bronze glows faintly in the fluorescent light. She unhooks her arms from her father’s neck and reaches a small hand out to it, an almost subconscious movement.

“You’ve had a gun this whole time?” Hector interrogates, frowning.

Cecilia’s fingers pass through the knife. Annabeth can feel the soft press of skin against her palm.

As she stands abruptly, the man emits a small noise of confusion. Again, she ignores him. A million things race through her brain at once, and Annabeth picks apart the threads as fast as she can, and slowly something takes shape. A plan. She chews her lip harder. The chances were low, but then again, she had seen…

Annabeth looks at Hector.

“I think I know how to get out of here,” she says, “But you’re not going to like it. Hades, I’m not going to like it.”

Hector stares back, eyes narrowed in confusion.

“We have to get to the basement.”

Getting to the third floor proves trickier than going from the first to the second. Annabeth opens the door to the hallway, straining her ears as far as they’ll reach. Luthor’s close.

She returns inside, locking gazes with a still silently protesting Hector. She hands him her Yankees hat, carabiner attached, and the gun from the guard.

“As long as you carry her, it’ll shield you both. I distract Luthor, you run and wait for me outside the bottom stairwell.”

The man takes the hat and opens his mouth to argue, but Annabeth cuts him off again.

“I’ll lead you to the end of the hall. You remember the directions from there?” Annabeth makes Hector repeat them back to her.

“What if you don’t make it?” he says after Annabeth is sure he won't get lost.

She purses her lips, deciding to be entirely upfront. "I have to, this won’t work without me.”

Hector stares at her conflictingly. “I—” he shakes his head, “Okay. Okay, I’m ready.”

Annabeth flips her dark hood up, tucking in every loose curl to hide her identity as much as possible. “Let’s go.”

She opens the door, and they exchange one last determined look before Hector and Cecilia disappear into thin air.

Almost immediately, it goes terribly wrong.

They make it to the end of the hallway, at least, but as soon as they reach the two-way cross, Annabeth hears a shout and looks to her right to see the shorter guard catch sight of her.

“Run,” she hisses under her breath, directing Hector to continue forward, an instruction she prays he hears, and takes off to the left.

Two sets of thundering footsteps follow in her wake. All of a sudden, the air cracks and a bullet whizzes by, inches from her face. Annabeth hears the sound of another shot and breaks sharply left, into another hall.

She loses track of how many turns she’s made, twisting back and forth between the walls, but now that he’s seen her figure, Luthor doesn’t relent in his pursuit. He knows she is not Hector.

She picks up her pace, legs burning. She just needs a few brief seconds of hesitation to lose them, and she knows she can go faster. She ignores the tightening of her muscles, and pushes through, racing past two more squares in the grid. Sneaking a peek behind her and finding the hall empty, she turns right and pulls up short against the wall. The sound of her footsteps disappears abruptly, and she hears Luthor and the guard slow to a stop.

“Where did they go?” Luthor demands, and when the guard hesitates for just half a second, she hears the sound of Luthor’s gun reload, “Forget it, you take that side.”

Annabeth slides further down, back pressed against the wall until she reaches the next corner. Circling around almost fully to where she had heard them, she waits at the last turn and listens. The boots against the ground squeak, ever so slightly. It’s the guard. She keeps her head down and lets him approach.

The second he comes around, Annabeth grabs the gun, redirecting his line of fire, and pushes down, breaking his finger in the process. He grunts and tries to lash out with his good hand, but in the blink of an eye, she uses her size to step into his space and turn, hefting his weight onto her back and slamming his body down into the ground. Still gripping his injured hand, she wraps his own arm against his neck and throws all her weight to the side, pulling his elbow tight. He splutters against the choke hold for eight seconds, before sinking to the ground, unconscious.

Annabeth hears the shot go off behind her and doesn’t think, just lets her instincts take over. Her arm grabs the fallen gun and her body launches to the right, tucking forward. She rolls to her feet, already on the move.

“You will pay for this,” Luthor’s voice echoes, tauntingly, from around the corner, “Or, we could make a deal. You tell me who you are and what you are doing on my property, and I don’t kill you.”

Annabeth stays quiet, feet sliding her further and further away. She needs to get out of here before he puts all the pieces together. She can’t run around this floor forever. Hector and Cecilia are waiting for her, and she won’t let them down. She shifts the fabric at her side, secures her hood, and exhales, then—

“I surrender,” she announces, as gruffly as possible.

“Oh?” Luthor stops in his step and lets out a darkly unnatural chuckle. “Come out then, little girl.”

Annabeth bites her tongue at the failed attempt to disguise her demographic and inches back to where she had run from, toward Luthor.

“Stop,” Luthor commands, “Gun on the ground, hands in the air.”

She drops the pistol, metal clattering in the silence, and kicks it into Luthor’s view. Arms raised in the air, head firmly faced down, and praying to every god she knows, Annabeth brings herself into view and hopes that Luthor's morbid curiosity as to her identity outweighs his need to subdue her.

Everything bone in her body screams in protest. She’s unprotected, exposed, vulnerable. She watches Luthor’s polished leather shoes thud closer, and closer, until he stands only a foot or two away. Annabeth watches his arm drop, gun dangling loosely at his side.

“Show your face,” he says, in a low voice.

Annabeth does not look up.

“I said,” he hisses. She sees his other arm rise, open palm red and raw, “Who are you?”

He places his fingers under her chin, and pulls.

At the exact same time, Annabeth reaches down with her parallel hand, and squeezes his fingers tightly, blisters pressing painfully against each other. Luthor snarls, bringing the gun up once more, but she ducks down and darts through his legs. Reaching underneath her hoodie, she turns back, and plunges her steel dagger through his upper calf, piercing fabric, skin, and deep into muscle.

The howl of agony Luthor releases is both haunting and satisfying. He stumbles to his knees and swipes backward with his gun. Annabeth runs, feeling like she’s on fire. She hears Luthor growl and let off another frustrated shot, but she’s already gone, sprinting to the stairwell.

“Hector,” she whispers furiously, “Hec—”

“I’m here.” The man materializes a few feet away, and Annabeth takes the cap from him. “You’re bleeding,” he observes, startled.

What? Annabeth frowns, and glances down at her arm, peering through the dark fabric. Oh. That’s what that was. She waves it off with a shake of her head.

“A graze,” she mutters, “Let’s go.”

“That’s a lot of blood,” he stresses, letting Cecilia down to follow her.

It hurts, but it’s not nearly the worst she’s had. At least the sweater soaks it all up.

“I’ll deal with it later,” she dismisses, “Listen, I slowed Luthor down, but he’s probably on his way. Come on, this way.”

She leads them through a path she’s been on before, ducking under and over heavy piping.

“How?”

“Stabbed him.”

Hector chokes.

“With the pretty knife?” This time Cecilia speaks, deeming it safe because her dad is also talking.

Annabeth smiles slightly. “I wish.” And if only it was as easy as exploding gold glitter.

“I know you’re down here.”

Luthor doesn’t bother to walk quietly this time. All three of them hear the heavy, uneven thudding of his wounded leg as he descends the stairs. His voice sounds violently unhinged, rage driven to madness.

“There’s nowhere to go.”

Hector glances at her alarmed. Annabeth shakes her head again, firmly, and pulls him down another hallway, deeper, and then another.

“Where are you taking us?” he whispers, throat scratchy in the dusty air.

Above them, the lights flicker in and out of use. Annabeth’s eyes start to burn. They’re here.

She stops walking and turns to the wall.

“There’s no exit,” Hector pleads, shifting like he wants to dart away.

Annabeth opens her mouth to counter him, but Cecilia does instead. “Not true, papa,” she whispers.

Annabeth runs her fingers along the faint seam on the rough surface, searching, searching. Somewhere above her head, she finds the indent. As the dust brushes away, a familiar symbol comes into view.

“Come out.”

Luthor has resorted to lugging his bad leg. His shoe scrapes along, crunching loose particles on the ground. The metal of his gun drags across the surface of the walls.

Annabeth pays him no mind. Hector watches in horror as she dips a finger into her gunshot wound and raises it, pressing firmly.

The blood seeps into the wall, the Greek letter delta glowing golden, and the entire slab of concrete scratchily slides open. Beside her, Hector stares on, uncomprehendingly.

“Get in.”

He hesitates, and Annabeth thinks she might have to pull him through with force, but Cecilia peers into the dark tunnel and steps through the entrance with ease. Hector snaps out of it and lurches forward to join her.

“You can’t escape me,” Luthor calls out, with malicious glee.

She gives the corner one last glance, Luthor’s crooked shadow swelling, and smirks. The moment after Annabeth crosses the boundary, the door bolts shut, sealing itself up and disappearing from view.

Annabeth takes a deep, long breath. The air smells like dirt and rainwater.

“What is this?” Hector whispers from somewhere over her shoulder.

She can almost hear his eyes darting around, trying to make sense of it all. But it’s no use. The darkness is impermeable.

It’s strange, that she feels much safer in here, the evil seeping from the walls a much more familiar sensation than Luthor’s underground metal prison. She knows better than to dwell on that feeling.

“The Labyrinth,” Annabeth whispers back, “It’s not a part of Luthor’s world. He can’t get to us in here.”

As if a string has been cut, the tension drops from Hector’s body.

“So, what’s the plan? We wait him out, then sneak back—”

"No," Annabeth says, with a finality in her voice that makes him clutch Cecilia's hand tighter. "The only way out, is through the maze."

She reaches back into her backpack. Under the cover of darkness, Annabeth pops a piece of ambrosia into her mouth and lets the familiar taste of blueberry ice cream settle on her tongue. After strapping the celestial bronze dagger to her thigh, she flicks on her flashlight, pointing it down the path before them.

“What’s down there? Where does it go?” he breathes, aghast. She can’t imagine what he must see.

“I don’t know,” she admits “But Cecilia does, don’t you?”

The girl startles at the way Annabeth crouches down to meet her eyes but nods shyly and points in front of her.

“There’s a light, on the floor.”

Annabeth breathes an audible sigh of relief and hands the girl's father the flashlight.

“Just keep walking,” she instructs, then lowers her gaze, “Tell your dad if you see anything weird, okay? I’ll cover our backs.”

They travel in dead silence for fifteen minutes, but it feels like much longer. The pain in her arm has dissipated almost completely, but the blood has yet to dry, fabric sticking against her skin. Hector has yet to ask a single question, and she’s immensely grateful for the ability to just focus on getting through. She angles herself to search for some sort of following shadow, and, finding none, turns back around to see that Hector has stopped.

The path before them diverges into two distinctly-looking passages. The one on the left is adorned with flickering torches, lighting the way through. The man steps towards it, but Annabeth tugs him back sharply by the shoulder.

She looks at Cecilia. "Which one?"

The girl points nervously to the right, where the cave narrows uncomfortably and seems to slope downward.

“Out of the three of us, she’s the only one with the sight. If she says that way, that’s where we go,” Annabeth explains, at Hector’s open mouth.

He shuts it, pursing his lips, and nods.

They squeeze through the gap one by one, linking hands to pull each other through for another few minutes before the space widens again. Cecilia makes them take the middle path through a three-way fork, every step feeling like it’s taking them deeper and deeper down.

Suddenly, the girl stops in her tracks, and pivots left. She points to the section of the stacked stone wall before her. Annabeth grabs at the rocks, prying them off with her fingers and Hector starts to help. After dislodging a few, the rest of them fall away, and soft, cool-toned light filters in.

Blinking against it, Annabeth helps Cecilia and Hector through before climbing out.

“We’re home,” Cecilia gasps, looking around. Her father joins in her awe as they recognize the familiar surroundings.

They’re in the center of a quaint town center, spit out at the back of an old church. Beyond the short grass field, the sun is starting to come up behind the red-bricked buildings.

“I don’t get it,” Hector mutters, “We were in Metropolis, and we only walked for thirty minutes.”

“Do you want me to explain?” Annabeth asks, tilting her head.

If that’s what he wants, she’ll give it to him. She owes him that much.

“I don’t,” he says, finally. “I haven’t understood a single thing that’s happened tonight, including you and your whole—” He gestures vaguely at her. “Thing. I think I’d like to keep it that way. I just want Cecilia and I to get back to our lives.”

Annabeth nods, somewhat relieved.

“And,” he pauses, “I’m not going to apologize for being angry, but…I said some harsh things to you down there, when you were just trying to help and for that, I’m sorry.”

She manages a weak smile. “Don’t be. I got you into that mess, didn’t I?” She means for it to be laced with humor, but instead, it's a little sad. She clears her throat. “Do you have anywhere to stay? Luthor might come looking for you.”

The man frowns, then sighs. “I have a couple of friends that wouldn’t mind housing us for a while, god knows how long we’ll be there.”

“August first.” At his confused look, she continues. “He goes to court on the twenty-ninth.”

Hector scoffs without heat. “Don’t be naïve. Luthor’s got the best lawyers blood money can buy. He’s going to win that trial.”

Annabeth smiles sharply. “No, he’s not.”

There’s another moment of silence where Cecilia twists her feet into the dewy grass while he eyes her warily.

“Two weeks, huh?” he asks.

“Two weeks,” Annabeth confirms, and watches the two of them walk hand in hand down the street until they are no more than faint pinpricks against the dawning sun.

Leaning against the church’s back wall, Annabeth holds her cell phone up.

“Annabeth?” The voice in her ear is groggy with sleep. “It’s like,” Percy groans, “Five-thirty am, what’s up?”

“Sorry, time moves weirdly in the labyrinth,” she laughs lightly, despite her budding headache.

She can hear him bolt upright in bed. “What?” he demands, suddenly completely awake. “Where are you?”

“Town church of Ridgewood, in New Jersey.”

“I’m coming.”

Annabeth closes her eyes just briefly, in rest. All the adrenaline in her body has drained her, and she’s tired. It’s the regular sort of exhaustion this time, though, the lull following a battle, fought and won.

She peels her eyelids open, just in time to catch Mrs. O’Leary bound out from the shadow of a tall tree. Percy leaps off her back and runs up. Annabeth extends her arms out and lets him smother her in a tight hug. He smells of saltwater and familiar laundered bedsheets, and Annabeth buries her nose in his shirt.

She stays like this, for as long as she can, before the panting hellhound swipes her tongue up, licking them apart. With his hands on her shoulders, Percy studies her in concern. The darkened, ripped patch of his sweater, heavily bagged eyes, and hair frizzy from being trapped underneath a hood.

“Is that a bullet hole?” he practically screeches, sticking his finger straight through the arm of the fabric.

She can’t help the well of laughter that bubbles up inside her, as he stares, incredulous. When it subsides, she leans forward, resting her forehead against his shoulder. “I think I need a break,” she admits.

“Let’s go home,” he says and circles his arms around her back once more.

“I can’t.” Another laugh, slightly delirious, erupts from her chest. “I have work in three hours.”

Bright and early on Sunday, Annabeth jogs through her usual route in Heroes Park, along the small lake, through the winding trees, and then across the green field, towards the central statue.

It’s busier than the same time on Saturdays, with several picnic blankets dotting the grass and an impressive number of runners, stretching their limbs or following their own paths. Annabeth joins them, bending down to reach her fingers to her toes.

Beyond the statue, a few meters away, a coffee truck with a permanent set up of small tables replaces the early bird menu sign with their all-day one. Despite it only being two hours after daybreak, about a third of the chairs surrounding it are occupied.

Annabeth types an unfamiliar number into her phone and presses dial. She holds the device up to her ear with one hand and stretches the other arm across her body. She feels nothing but pleasant tightening, like she had never been shot in the first place.

“This is a private line,” a deep voice responds, irritably, after two rings, “Who is this?”

“I have a favor to ask of you.”

“What?” it snaps. “Who—”

“Regarding Luthor.” Annabeth repositions her phone to the other ear, switching arms. “A deal that will benefit the both of us.”

“And what’s that?” the faceless man replies, somewhat sarcastic.

“Pull your support.”

A harsh laugh echoes through the receiver. "Listen, if this is some kind of joke by a reporter or the DA’s office, I’ll have you know, what you’re doing is highly illegal.”

“I’m not kidding,” Annabeth continues, “When I say it really is in your best interest to drop Luthor.”

“Best interest? That’s funny, I’d imagine our best interest would be to not break a contract with the man paying us more money than most people see in a lifetime. Now, if that’s all—”

“What good is all that money if you lose?” Annabeth props her toes up against the base of the statue and leans forward, stretching out her calf. “The evidence is piled up against him, and the way I see it, a loss as big as this will ruin your reputation.”

“Lose,” the man echoes, scoffing, like he cannot comprehend the very concept, “Again, I don’t know who you are, or what this is, but don’t ever contact this number again.”

“I didn’t want to do this,” she sighs, which is a complete and utter bold-faced lie, “Check your email.” The other end is silent. "Trust me. You should see this."

She waits a few seconds, patiently, switching legs before the sound of sputtering liquid fills her ear.

“What…what is this?”

“You might be able to fabricate evidence here, bribe some high-ranking officials, whatever it is you people do to get your way, but do you really think that kind of process is going to hold up in international court? Luthor will get what’s coming to him. Best case, the entire world watches you lose, and all your current clients spook and withdraw their contracts. Worst case, Luthor isn't the only one on trial.”

The person on the phone holds their breath, no doubt flicking through all the pictures and data that she has sent over. Finally, he sighs, long and deep.

“Good choice,” Annabeth says, and ends the call.

A few meters away, a grey-haired man sits at a table, coffee dripping down his collared shirt, and holds his head in his hands.

Chapter Text

At her usual break time on Monday morning, Annabeth stands at her desk, turns off her computer for the time being, and takes the elevator up to the top floor. Stepping through the tinted glass doors, she picks up on just how different the office looks now that Lana has taken over the space.

The sleekness of the walls and ceiling remains the same, but most of Luthor’s art has been removed and replaced by livelier pieces. There’s a plush chair in the corner that hadn’t been there before, a large houseplant in the other, and the marble desk in the center is littered with documents, a few colorful paperweights, and a small metal frame.

“Annabeth,” Lana smiles, placing her pen down and gesturing to the space before her, “How are you?”

She had received the invitation for lunch earlier that day, and, as Annabeth pulls out the chair and takes the seat, she is reminded of her first-ever meal with Lana. So many things have changed since then, in such a short amount of time. The view from that rooftop restaurant doesn’t even compare to the one from the penthouse window.

“I really should be asking you that, given the recent events,” she points out.

Lana laughs. “Definitely strange,” she admits, “But I’m getting used to it. It’s a lot of new responsibilities, and a lot of things to learn.”

“It suits you,” Annabeth smiles, “the new title.”

The difference, unlike the change in décor, isn’t obvious. But something in Lana's posture has unfolded like she's finally taking up the space she had needed.

“You think?” she asks, looking somewhat pleased.

Annabeth nods. “You seem more at ease with yourself, now that you’re in charge,” she pauses, “like shedding a mask.”

Lana tilts her head, contemplating the meaning of that. Annabeth has noticed that she’s started to filter herself less and less around the other woman. It’s both freeing and something she’s not entirely comfortable with yet.

“Can I ask you a question?” Annabeth says, changing the subject to something even less comfortable. Lana blinks out of her thoughts and motions for her to go ahead. “If Luthor wins this trial, will he be able to get back into the company?”

If Lana's surprised by her choice of topic, she doesn't show it. She does, however, droop her shoulders and frown.

“I’m not sure,” she admits, “It depends. If he’s found guilty, his shares will be returned to LexCorp, but if not, he might still have some sway with the board. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that,” Annabeth shrugs, “At the board meeting, I remember Abernathy saying something along the lines of him coming back, and she sounded so sure.” She chews her lip. “Some of the other employees have been worried about him storming the building, or something just as crazy.”

Not a single word of her sentence is a lie, and it baffles even Annabeth at how good she has gotten at planting seeds of thought.

Lana furrows her brows in concern. She takes a moment, still frowning, and flicks her fingers across her keyboard. Annabeth hears the whoosh of a message being set off.

“Well,” Lana finally says, face clearing and taking on something more akin to mischief as she looks up, “We’ll just have to see at the trial.”

Then, like her skin isn’t absolutely buzzing with excitement, Annabeth fixes the woman with a very serious stare.

“Only if I get to log my hours.”

Dennis, as Annabeth has come to realize, is an absolute menace.

She should have realized it the second he told her that he had chosen personal loyalty over bringing a criminal to justice, that the hardened insurance agent facade was just that, a facade, because Annabeth has become convinced that he is actually, in fact, Percy in forty-five years. Clearly very smart and capable, but with not a care in the world for following rules, as if their lives physically depended on them constantly toeing the line.

It’s a little funny, yes, but also more than a little exhausting.

(The first time Percy had seen the news report of Luthor's arrest, he had blown a party noisemaker into the phone receiver, nearly bursting her left eardrum. Dennis had called a few minutes later with a cheer of success so loud it had taken out her right one.)

Upon her return home, she scrolls through her contacts and clicks on his name, this time placing it on speaker.

“Annabeth, my dear, I hope you’re doing well,” he greets casually, but there’s something else in his tone.

“I’m good,” she says cautiously, “Is everything alright?”

“Well, my daughter is visiting today, with her children, and I thought—”

Annabeth’s breath catches in her throat. Did something happen? Is everyone okay? Did Luthor—

“—you should join us for dinner.”

What?

“It would be so lovely for you to meet them,” he finishes. He pauses, eagerly waiting for her answer.

“Dinner?” she echoes faintly, then remembers what she had even called for in the first place, “Have you practiced your testimony?”

“You can interrogate me over dessert,” Dennis says, and she can hear the easy shrug, “I made a lemon meringue.”

Annabeth sighs. This is exactly what she had meant by ‘toeing the line’.

“I can’t,” she argues, “My preferred mode of transportation is…otherwise occupied. Besides, are you really sure you want to introduce me to your family?”

“Of course!” Dennis sounds offended. “They’d love to get to know you, and we can go over exactly what I should tell the jury to guarantee Luthor never sees the light of day.”

“Did you get the bulleted list I sent you? If you hit all those points, we’ll be in the clear,” Annabeth asks, pivoting directions again.

“Yes, I did, I—actually I am confused about one thing.” Annabeth makes a ‘go on’ noise with her throat. “What I’d like to know, is why I wasn’t allowed to lie to those reporters, but I am allowed to do it in court.”

He’s being funny, she knows this. And yet, still, she pinches her nose.

“You’re under oath, Dennis, it’s not lying, it’s strategic truth-telling," she emphasizes, "How many times do I need to say it?"

“Once more, over a slice of pie,” he grins over the phone, “And don’t think I missed you say ‘preferred’, as in, you have another mysterious way of getting here.”

Damn Percy and his aged-up clones and their ability to wear her down. Annabeth thinks it over for a few seconds.

“Fine,” she says finally, rolling her eyes, “Can I bring a plus one?”

Because if she has to make polite and pleasant conversation with Dennis’s family during dinner and immediately follow it up with a round of hard-hitting questions about his past, there’s no way she’s braving it alone.

“Of course,” he replies easily, sounding more pleased with the addition than surprised, “See you soon dear.”

“See you then,” Annabeth says, then hangs up to demand request her boyfriend’s presence.

Sneaking into the district attorney’s office is insultingly easy, but maybe her recent experiences have skewed her judgment on what kind of B&E can be considered effortless. Annabeth winds her way through cluttered desks until she reaches one with the name that she recognizes from the online case records.

She flicks through the stapled packet of paper in her hand to triple-check she's not missing any pages and moves to lay it atop a list of unidentified court briefings.

Her arm hesitates.

Using her free hand, she shifts some of the desk mess aside, revealing a report that matches the one that currently rests in her grip.

Annabeth blinks. Huh, she thinks, maybe they can handle it from here.

Luthor’s trial commences at nine am sharp, but Lana had Annabeth block off her calendar starting at seven. When Annabeth had asked about the need for such an early start to the day, Lana had looked her dead in the eye and said she “wanted good seats.”

Annabeth had tried her best but had ultimately failed to keep herself from laughing.

As they walk up the imposing stone steps, reporters already camped along the railings but unable to enter with their bulky cameras and microphone sets, she has to admit, that the Metropolis Courthouse is quite a feat of architecture. There are several vertical layers to the building, some capped with curved, half-circle roofs and others with slanted tile. The two silver knight statues that guard the entrance from above resemble the main golden, winged knight that decorates the lawn.

Annabeth trails Lana through the heavy open doors, where they flash their government IDs at the check-in counter. Following a brief pat down by a female police officer and Annabeth mourning the absence of her knife for that very reason, they make it through security and head to the assigned courtroom.

Turning the corner, Lana suddenly stops, and Annabeth looks up to see the cause of the delay.

It’s Luthor. Of course it is, because even though Annabeth can only see the back of a shiny bald head, who else would elicit that kind of extremely tense reaction in both her and Lana?

He’s still wearing a damn suit, and there goes her chances at the satisfaction of seeing him in the bright orange jail uniform. However, it’s a jury trial, so she understands the motivation of dressing well.

Across from him, Annabeth recognizes the prosecutor, who is, by some unfortunate coincidence, attempting to enter the room at the same time Luthor is being escorted in.

With his hands still handcuffed behind his back, Luthor leans forward into the other man’s personal space. The prison guards at his side slightly loosen their grip to let him, and Annabeth wonders if they are the ones Luthor had bribed to spend a night out of detention to torment her. Probably.

“Tread carefully,” Luthor warns, voice still as cold and smooth as the day Annabeth had met him, “You should know how important LexCorp is to this city’s economy. I’m not sure how Metropolis will survive should I find myself behind bars.” The prosecutor’s face pales. “All of those jobs we supply, it’d be a shame if hundreds of employees suddenly found themselves on the streets.”

The other man grits his teeth in anger, but the fear in his eyes is palpable.

Beside her, Lana clenches her first and takes an audible step forward.

“That’s not your decision to make anymore,” she calls out.

Luthor whirls around, eyes narrowing into slits when he recognizes who has spoken, and again, his guards let him.

Annabeth strategically stays a few feet in the background. There’s no need to draw any unnecessary attention to her presence.

“Or did Abernathy not tell you?” Lana mocks, casually. Annabeth thinks she might just be taunting him, but there's an oh-so-slight glimmer of surprise on the man's face that indicates he genuinely did not know. “Board voted me in, Lex. As per our last meeting, you’re not the CEO of LexCorp anymore. I am.”

Luther’s face folds in fury as he hisses, “This entire accusation is outrageous, and after I’m declared innocent, the board will—”

“The board has lost faith in you,” Lana cuts him off, rolling with the newfound confidence, “Even if this whole trial turns out to be some sort of mistake, the board doesn’t believe you have the company’s best interests at heart. Your business ethics have always been a little too skewed, but those plans were really the last straw. Face it, Lex, they’ve abandoned you. You have no leverage here.”

Lana smiles at the indescribably livid glare Luthor bores into her.

Behind them, the noisy scuffle of footsteps grows louder and the guards, unwilling to be seen slacking off in the face of a larger audience, pull on Luthor’s handcuffs, shoving him into the room. Annabeth has stabbed many a monster in her life, but besides a brief puff of gold glitter, not often are there visible aftereffects. This time, however, there’s a subtle limp in Luthor’s gait as he walks that gives her enough vindictive satisfaction to more than make up for the missing prison jumpsuit.

The prosecutor smiles gratefully at Lana, and with renewed assurance in his abilities, ducks through the doors as well.

“Abernathy?” Annabeth asks in a low voice, as they follow, just to make sure they’re both on the same page.

“Visitor logs are public information,” Lana explains, then nods at Annabeth’s ‘ah, I see’ expression, “She’s been talking to him. Don’t worry, the board and I will deal with it.”

The other woman leads them both over to the public seating area, where a pair of familiar faces and a newcomer, a black-haired boy her age, have claimed their spaces in the second row.

“I can’t believe you beat me here,” Lana jokes, half complaining.

“You know Clark,” Lois Lane leans up and smirks, “Always first at the scene of the crime.”

Clark Kent reaches up and fiddles with his glasses to hide his amused smile, but the shaking of his shoulders gives away his laughter. The boy beside them snorts.

The dynamic between the three adults now is much more relaxed than it had been weeks ago at Luthor’s gala, Annabeth notices, but she’s not surprised. Working together to take down a common enemy will do that. She knows that from experience.

“I should say congratulations though,” Clark offers, looking around discreetly, “on your promotion.”

Lana grins, proudly, before shrugging. “We’ll be officially announcing it soon, no need to keep it under wraps.”

Clark nods, then catches Annabeth’s eyes from over Lois’s shoulder.

"It's nice to see you again, Annabeth," he smiles, almost knowingly. He's more Superman than Clark again. He switches so easily that she wonders if he's doing it on purpose, or if it really just comes that naturally. "Seems you were right."

Her eyes widen just a fraction at that, and her gaze involuntarily shifts to Lana, but she’s too preoccupied with Lois to notice the comment. Annabeth gives him a sheepish shrug and a casual “Guess so,” as the boy beside him looks on in slight interest.

Fortunately, Lana soon after takes the seat next to the other woman, Annabeth settles into the next one over, and the two men disappear into her periphery.

She takes the time to study Luthor instead. The man is sitting inside an enclosed bench on the right side of the room, directly facing the empty jury box. A new prison officer occupies the space next to his, with several inches between the two, the uniformed man looking like he would rather be anywhere but here.

Luthor looks calm and collected, as usual, but there are small cracks in his demeanor as if he is still processing his termination. Every so often, he shifts his injured leg or stretches out his now uncuffed hand, the angry red having faded to pale pink. More than once, Annabeth catches him boring his eyes into Clark’s skull, as if he’s the one with the laser vision.

She’s suddenly very glad she had dropped her evidence packet to Lois and Clark before going to the police, instead of the other way around. Yes, it had given the two reporters the credit for taking Luthor down, but given recent events, it distracts Luthor from thinking too much about Annabeth’s involvement. He’s far too busy cursing his mortal enemy for being the one to bring him down, and as his civilian self, no less. It’s an outright slap in the face, the greatest insult he could possibly think of. It’s bad enough that Superman has defeated Lex Luthor, but for the public headlines to name Clark Kent as the hero, is downright humiliating. (Lois Lane’s name precedes Clark’s on those headlines, but Annabeth doubts Luthor even acknowledges that.)

She lets her gaze roam the rest of the courtroom. In front of the judge's elevated stand and the witness box, is a large, long table. The prosecutor that Annabeth recognizes from outside sits on one end, an assistant at his side, while another tweed-like man sits on the defense side.

“That’s Luthor’s lawyer?” Annabeth says, with carefully crafted incredulity.

There’s nothing wrong with him, a perfectly ordinary man in a brown suit rifling through a stack of papers pulled out from his suitcase. But a perfectly ordinary man does not often find himself at Luthor’s right side, violently twisting the truth to get his way.

“It’s not,” Lana replies, very real confusion coloring her voice, “I’ve met the firm he employs, and I don’t recognize him.”

"Court-appointed attorney," Lois explains, a vindictive glee in her pale eyes as she leans over to address them both.

Lana’s mouth drops open.

“His lawyers dropped him,” Lois continues, casually, as if she’s not providing absolutely unheard-of information. Unheard of to Lana, at least. “Just like that. Completely out of the blue. They must've spread the word because I heard that no other firm nor independent lawyer would take his case."

“Fired by his company and his go-to firm,” Clark chuckles, blue eyes twinkling, “I’ve heard of poor performance, but this really takes the cake.”

The boy beside him rolls his eyes, but Lana plows past the joke.

“What?” she repeats, like she can't believe it. Annabeth stares back as well, wide-eyed. "But why? They’ve been with him for so long, I just can’t imagine—”

"No one would tell me," Lois shrugs, "And trust me, I asked." Clark grimaces as if he has been on the end of her interrogation skills and wouldn't wish it upon his worst enemy. "All they said was to wait, and I'd find out eventually."

Lois throws her hands up in a frustrated ‘what can you do?’ gesture.

“Be patient?” Clark offers, answering her silent question.

Lois sends him a long-suffering glare and mutters something about his reporting skills, or lack thereof. Annabeth presses her back against the bench once more, feeling pity for that grey-haired man in the park as she thinks of how hard Lois must have pressed him for information.

Contrary to Percy’s popular belief, Annabeth doesn’t know everything. She’s smart beyond belief, but there are tons of things she doesn't know, like nuclear physics, alien physiology, European Renaissance-era history, and the list goes on. She’s good at memorizing things, sure, and disregarding the dyslexia and ADHD school comes easier to her than other demigods, but neither of those is particularly her strong suit. What she is, however, intimately familiar with, is strategy.

With every carefully collected piece in place, all Annabeth can do now is watch. The jurors file in, one by one, and populate the stand, getting comfortable for a long day. The judge takes her seat at the podium, casts a severe and analyzing gaze over the entire room, and calls the court into session.

The prosecutor’s opening statement is brief and concise, firmly outlining the charges and the argument he is to present in the upcoming hours. The defense’s statement is even shorter and not nearly as self-assured, but it does the job. Annabeth watches Luthor eye his counsel with utter disgust. The judge, a tall older woman with harsh lines across her forehead, instructs the prosecution to call his first witness.

The door behind Annabeth opens and the entire room turns to watch court officials escort Dennis Bryant up to the front. He’s been dressed sharply in the outfit Annabeth and his daughter had decided upon, sleek grey trousers and a white collared shirt poking out from under a cream sweater.

(Rose is every bit the angel Dennis had described her as, a shock of genuine kindness with a healthy streak of guile inherited, no doubt, from her father. Percy had taken to Rose’s twin toddlers upon first glance and has already started to schedule playdates with Estelle. Annabeth has dozens of siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles, but this is the moment she realizes just how big her family has gotten.)

Annabeth gives Dennis a small private smile as he passes her, takes his seat at the stand, and is sworn in.

“Please state your name for the court.”

“Dennis Gregory Bryant.”

“You are the insurance agent that handled the life insurance claim for Lionel and Lillian Luthor following their deaths, is that correct?” the prosecutor asks.

Dennis nods, then remembering the court reporter, voices the confirmation.

“What was the monetary value of this claim?"

“Three hundred thousand dollars,” Dennis replies, dutifully.

“And what did you think of this amount?”

“It was dodgy,” he answers, then continues at the prosecutor’s encouraging nod, “At the time, the Luthors were residing in Southside Metropolis, and I did not believe they had the means to keep up with the policy’s monthly payment plan. I also received the form by mail and had no previous contact with either Mr. or Mrs. Luthor.”

Annabeth already knows this information, but the location of the Luthor home had not been mentioned in Lois and Clark’s article. A few quiet murmurs break out within the public seating area and the jurors look on, intrigued, but as instructed by the judge, remain silent.

The prosecutor continues to ask Dennis if he had verified the validity of the claim, to which he explains that yes, he had gone over to the Luthor residence to ensure that it had not been a mistake. As Dennis chronicles his violent experience with Lionel on the property, several jurors frown.

“If Mr. Lionel Luthor denied the claim as vehemently as you described, why did you continue to file it?” the prosecutor presses.

“I received an apology letter, again through the mail, apologizing for the outburst,” Dennis reveals, then shrugs his shoulders, “At the time I had no reason to be truly suspicious, as everything had been filled out properly, and a check for the first installment had been included.”

The prosecutor nods, accepting this answer. “Then what happened?”

“The next day, I get a call about the car accident, the one that killed the Luthors, so I began the process to cash out the claim to the beneficiary.”

“Who was?”

“Lex Luthor,” Dennis answers, sparing the man in question no more than a brief glance.

It’s the first time he looks at Luthor, the first time setting eyes on him in years, and as much as he had insisted that he was unshakable, Annabeth can see his apprehension when Luthor meets him head-on in a cold glare.

“Did you not find that at all suspicious?” the prosecutor presses.

"Objection," Luthor’s attorney calls out, though he doesn’t really seem angry about it, “Speculative.”

“Sustained,” the judge agrees.

The prosecutor nods, disappointed, and declares that he has no further questions. Luthor’s attorney stands for cross-examination and asks a few weak clarifying questions about the timing of the claim and his professional experience as an agent that Dennis answers with ease. It does nothing to change the current opinion of the room.

“No further—”

Across the room, Luthor suddenly stands, drawing everyone’s attention.

“I would like to request to represent myself,” he announces, “On grounds that I do not believe my attorney is practicing to the full extent of his ability.”

Annabeth sighs as resounding sharp inhales of breath echo around her. Why is she not surprised in the slightest?

“Great,” the boy three spaces down groans, and Annabeth silently agrees.

The judge contemplates this with a hard stare.

“Given your age and education level, I would deem you competent to do so,” she decides, “You are aware that you are giving up your right to an attorney, correct?”

“Yes,” Luthor replies, irritated and already moving to exit his bench.

“Then you may proceed.”

As Luthor approaches the defense side, Annabeth sees him whisper something harshly to his attorney, who grits his teeth, gathers his materials, and sits down, effectively fired, in the first row of the public seating area.

“Mr. Bryant,” Luthor addresses the witness, lips curling, “Please list your current health conditions for the court.”

The prosecutor objects on the grounds of irrelevance, but after Luthor says he has a point to make, the judge grudgingly overrules it.

Dennis looks nervous now, but he hides it well under a mask of confusion. “High cholesterol, um chronic knee pain…”

“And dementia,” Luthor interrupts, impatient, “Is that correct?”

“I—yes,” he answers, setting his jaw, refusing to cow, “Alzheimer’s, but—”

“And you did not feel the need to mention this brain condition when recounting a tale from decades ago?” Luthor asks, condescendingly.

The prosecutor objects again because of the leading question and this time, the judge sustains it.

“A man with memory problems, trying to testify in court on a suspected murder case with little visible evidence,” Luthor continues, turning his body away from Dennis and plowing past the judge’s ruling, “How can we take this into account as fact? He could very well be confusing it with a previous claim or just making it all up.”

“Objection!” the prosecutor nearly yells, “He is addressing the jury, your honor.”

“Sustained,” the judge replies, giving Luthor a hard look, “Mr. Luthor, I’ve already—”

Luthor replies saying that he has no further questions and takes his seat, but the damage is already done. The jurors frown, no longer having full confidence in their previous opinion.

From inside the stand, Dennis shifts uncomfortably, jaw clenching in fear as he, too, feels the uncertainty emanating from the jury. His gaze finds Annabeth across the room, and she meets his eyes straight on. Annabeth shakes her head at him, a small, silent action almost lost amongst the large crowd of people who have gathered to watch the trial unfold. From somewhere in her periphery, she can feel a second set of curious eyes on her, but she doesn’t turn and just focuses on reassuring her friend. Dennis’s expression smoothens out, and he relaxes.

“I’d like to motion for re-direct.”

The prosecutor raises from his seat with a very familiar stack of paper in his hands. The judge allows it.

“This is a report completed by Doctors Wiglesworth and Mosqueda using federally sanctioned funds on the viability of dementia patients as court witnesses,” he announces, placing a second copy before the judge.

“This was not entered as evidence, your honor,” Luthor seethes, the title more sarcastic than the rest of the sentence. The distinction does not escape the woman who scowls back.

“I am not calling these doctors as witnesses, simply reading from the report. May I continue, your honor?” the prosecutor replies smoothly, then at the woman’s nod, continues, “The conclusion reads ‘There is strong evidence that many people with dementia have cognitive reserve for remembering events in their lives that have emotional context.’ Further: ‘The stage of the dementing disease is a factor in reliability of emotional memory.’ Mr. Bryant, exactly when were you diagnosed with your condition?"

“Two and a half months ago, I visited the doctor on May sixteenth,” Dennis answers, back on stable footing.

“And what did your doctor say?”

“That it was caught early, that serious degeneration would start to occur around this time next year, and that I would find it difficult to make new memories before I forgot old ones.”

Annabeth smiles to herself, a perfect answer.

“I will submit the proof corroborating his diagnosis, but for now, no further questions, your honor.”

As Dennis is escorted off of the stand and back out of the room, there’s no doubt he is smiling. He doesn’t look at her on the way out this time, but Annabeth knows the expression is directed toward her.

Unfortunately, Luthor is not half bad as his own lawyer. He is knowledgeable in court proceedings, understands the paperwork, and speaks with a confidence that can only be backed by years of experience in circumventing his many crimes. The one caveat is that the judge has had to reprimand him twice already for his demeaning and hostile behavior.

Following an especially harsh scolding, he can do nothing but glare at the prosecutor as the man offers up his next piece of evidence.

“I have here the handwriting analysis results, conducted by a court-approved expert, comparing the original life insurance claim which was, allegedly, filled out by Lionel Luthor, to his will, which has been proven to be written by the same man, as seen by the witness signatures.”

“And from where was this will procured?” the judge asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I have it in writing that a copy was acquired by Mr. Bryant as part of his investigation.”

The judge accepts this explanation. Annabeth bites the inside of her cheek, knowing full well that Dennis had not meant his insurance investigation.

“As stated by this similarity report with ninety-six percent certainty, the signatures at the bottom of these two documents do not match.”

The entire courtroom is silent.

Then Luthor explodes.

“Fabrication of evidence!” he roars, his chair screeching loudly as he stands and stalks over to the prosecutor, “There is no reason to believe—”

“That is enough, Mr. Luthor!” the judge raises her voice, glancing over to the court officers who tense, ready to jump into action, “Sit down, or I will have you—”

Luthor snatches the documents from the prosecutor’s hand, flipping furiously through.

“’The letter form indicates several downward strokes that do not remain consistent throughout—'” he reads out loud, voice growing steadily more disbelieving, “This senseless analysis holds no weight—”

“That is it,” the judge interrupts loudly, bringing the gavel down on her desk with a sharp crack, “The court will stand at recess until tomorrow, nine am. Mr. Luthor, please meet me at the bench to discuss your behavior.”

As they stand with the crowd to file out, Annabeth leans over to whisper in Lana’s ear, “Should’ve brought popcorn,” and the other woman slaps a hand over her mouth to muffle her snort.

The next time Annabeth sees Luthor, he is back in the accused section, a court officer at his side, and his attorney has re-replaced him at his original seat on the lawyer’s table.

“Mr. Luthor has been removed as acting defense, due to his previous outbursts and will remain silent,” the judge glares, and Luthor glares back, “unless called upon to speak.”

Annabeth can’t hear it, but Clark’s shoulders are laughing again. She can feel the bench below her move.

The prosecutor calls upon his final witness, and a man a little younger than Dennis walks through the doors in dark blue pants and a simple grey shirt. When the prosecutor asks him to state his name for the court, he answers quietly, but everyone hears it.

“He agreed to testify?” Lana asks, raising her eyebrows.

“Clark tracked him down, and I talked some sense into him,” Lois grins sharply.

Annabeth can already imagine their newfound friendship giving Clark a hard time in the near future.

“Did you accept money from Lex Luthor following the accident that killed Lionel and Lillian Luthor?” the prosecutor asks.

The man on the stand slumps his shoulders. “Yes.”

“What was the money for?”

He retreats further in his chest, but still answers, “To falsify the report on the vehicles involved.”

The prosecutor hums. “Yes, that report, which states there were no signs of foul play in the semi-trailer truck, but that, due to the extent of the damage incurred to the Luthors’ vehicle, it was impossible to determine any substantial conclusion. Was that a lie?”

“Yes.”

The mechanic refuses to make eye contact, staring down at the floor, as gasps erupt around him. The judge quiets the room immediately.

“Which part?” the prosecutor continues.

“The evaluation of the Luthor vehicle,” the mechanic reveals, closing his eyes briefly before opening them, “There were signs of sabotage in the steering column.”

There are slightly fewer people in the public seating area than yesterday, but the exclamations of shock are much louder. The people in her row exchange grins, and this time, Annabeth joins in. Luthor almost stands again, an argument on his tongue, but the officer beside him tugs him down sharply.

The prosecutor smiles and, audibly smug, says, “I rest my case.”

The rest of the trial zips by, Luthor's court-appointed lawyer having little to say during cross-examination. Two closing statements later, one powerful and moving and the other not so much, the judge sends the jury to the deliberation room, leaving the rest of them seated, with bated breath.

The doors open one last time, and a small crowd of people file back in, led by one of their own.

“Twenty-six minutes,” Annabeth observes, and the boy still beside Clark whistles at the speedy return.

The judge gestures towards the jury, and their leader stands in his seat, slightly trembling fingers clutching a piece of paper. He holds it close to his eyes as he speaks.

“We the jury, in the case of The State versus Alexander Luthor, find the defendant guilty of the charge of first-degree murder on two counts and sentence him to life in prison, with the possibility of parole after twenty years.”

There’s no outburst from Luthor this time. His gaze, completely unreadable, sweeps the room. When he reaches second row, it pauses, lingering on the assortment of people he sees lined up. She doesn’t know what kinds of looks the others beside her are giving him, whether it's disgust or satisfaction or knowing disappointment. The latter is Clark, actually, she knows that much. But when Luthor catches her eyes on the way across, she can’t help it. Maybe it’s a mistake, maybe it’s not, maybe she wants to take a little credit, and maybe that’s not such a bad thing after all. Annabeth smiles at him, and the judge’s gavel comes down, sealing Luthor’s fate.

On Sunday, Annabeth wakes up and runs through Heroes Park as usual. For the first time this summer, there’s nothing to plan, nothing to think about. The sun is bright and beats down on her shoulders a little too strong. She listens to her sneakers come in contact with the dirt, the rhythmic thumping, and gets lost in the sound. She focuses on her breath, her lungs, the pleasant burning in her thighs, and absolutely nothing else.

When she turns the key into her apartment, she opens the door to her second surprise party of the month. Percy stands in the middle of it all, indicating that this one has, indeed, been organized by him, and holds out a small blue cupcake with an orange candle.

“Congratulations wise girl, on taking down the world’s baddest, baldest—”

The rest of his words are cut off, as she laughs and crosses the room in two large strides to kiss him deeply.

Somewhere in the corner of the room, someone wolf whistles.

When she finally lets him go, Percy holds the cupcake back up, from where he had moved his arm to avoid crushing it between their bodies, and Annabeth blows out the flame. The entire apartment cheers.

The space is much too small for all these people. Percy and Leo and Nico and Piper and Sally and Estelle and Paul and Dennis and Rose and Estelle’s newfound friends, Ethan and Clara. And yet, she muses, it doesn’t feel crowded at all.

Percy sticks by her side all day, even though she's still sweaty from her workout (which, he "Okay, didn't think that one through"), as they mingle and laugh and watch the news recount as much of the trial as they could from outside the courthouse.

At some point, Nico pulls her aside to let her know he has to duck out early, to which she nods understandingly, and disappears into a dark corner.

“Mom?” Ethan says, pointing to the dissipating bundle of shadows, light blue eyes blinking curiously, “That guy just melted.”

Four well-trained teenagers instantly snap their heads over. Blinking back at him and his twin sister and realizing that at no point in the last few weeks has Rose’s husband ever been brought up in conversation, Annabeth’s stomach drops.

Annabeth had tossed and turned in bed last night, contemplating her next move. There are two weeks remaining in her internship, ten days of work she probably should complete, if for no other reason than not facing the dissatisfaction of leaving something unfinished.

It doesn’t feel like that though. It doesn’t feel like she’s quitting, or not seeing it through to the end. What she feels, is that there are other friends she hasn’t seen in months. Long weekends spent mostly researching, planning, plotting Luthor’s end, and even longer weekdays at a full-time job only to come home and be too tired of keeping up a mask to have the energy to properly be herself.

When the sun dawns on Monday, Annabeth imagines the city wakes with a deep, therapeutic breath, as if born anew, and makes the decision to go home.

She arrives early at the office, catching Lana in the lobby, and hands over her LexCorp badge. When she says that she wants to end her internship slash temporary assistant position early, Lana looks at her with confusion and surprise, but also with understanding.

Annabeth is aware that she sticks out amongst the professionally dressed employees this time, with her loose jeans and tank top, mostly faded scars on display. Her camp necklace rests around her neck, laying proudly over the fabric of her shirt for once instead of its usual spot deep in her pocket. Lana's gaze roams over her, cataloging all the differences.

“Too much excitement for you?” Lana finally asks, accepting the badge and the decision.

“Not enough,” Annabeth smirks.

Her competent but ordinary intern facade is falling rapidly, and she can see the exact moment it registers in Lana’s eyes, that the Annabeth she had worked with all summer is not the same Annabeth that stands before her right now.

Lana searches her face intently.

“Like shedding a mask,” she echoes, almost to herself.

Annabeth’s smirk widens.

“I had a feeling there was something about you,” Lana murmurs, shaking her head softly.

She holds out a hand.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Annabeth,” she says, like it’s the first time she’s seeing her, and in a way, it is.

Annabeth’s genuine smile, still sharp but far less restrained, reveals itself as she shakes Lana’s hand and says “Likewise.”

“I hope you’ll keep in touch,” Lana tells her, “I’d like to get to know you.”

She hadn’t exactly planned to stay in contact, because getting close to a mortal, especially one with as much power as Lana now has, is dangerous. But now, she admits, that it may be worth it. Though she's leaving, Annabeth can't help but feel like she might miss the other woman. Despite not acting fully like herself for months, the level of comfort she has reached around her feels almost like a budding friendship.

“Maybe I will,” Annabeth replies.

Lana accepts the tentative agreement, almost turning to leave, but suddenly doesn’t.

“I—you know, before Clark got the recording, he came to me with his suspicions about Luthor,” she muses, and Annabeth nods to show she remembers that particular conversation, “He didn’t have any proof back then, just ‘an inkling that something was up’ is what he said. When I asked him what made him think that, he mentioned that a source had let something slip and accidentally pointed him in the right direction.” Lana’s previously unfocused eyes sharpen in on Annabeth. “But then at the trial, he said something interesting to you, that you were right.”

Annabeth tilts her head. So, Lana had heard it. Clark Kent, you tattletale.

There’s no question in her words, no demand for answers. But instead of shrugging or brushing it off with a vague excuse like the one she had given Clark, Annabeth raises her chin.

“I don’t spill secrets by accident.”

Lana’s brow furrows, disoriented at Annabeth’s chosen response. She absently brushes a thumb over the badge picture in her palm.

“You know, I’ve learned a lot of things the hard way,” Annabeth starts, watching Lana’s face carefully, “One of which, is that, sometimes, to build something worthwhile, you have to tear down what came before.”

She can see the gears turning rapidly, can see Lana reexamine every word, every conversation, every interaction, that she’s witnessed from Annabeth.

And Annabeth can see the exact moment realization dawns on her.

Employees around them weave around each other, a few sparing them short glances before scanning themselves through the turnstiles. The morning conversation is louder than usual, gossip of the trial verdict being flung around, traded in whispers and eager chatter. But Lana stays firmly planted in her spot in the middle of the floor.

“But that means you…”

She trails off, unable to form the words to properly convey her accusation. Annabeth gives her a knowing look.

“You earned that position fair and square,” she tells her, firmly, “You deserved it.”

Lana blinks, stunned.

“Goodbye, Lana. I’ll see you around,” Annabeth says, smiling casually, and heads towards the exit, finally leaving the drab offices for good.

(Though, hopefully, not drab for long, seeing as how Heyeck’s most significant obstacle for remodeling is currently being prepped for relocation to Stryker’s Island Penitentiary.)

Behind her, Lana stays frozen in place, watching her leave, the girl who, if she’s not wrong, brought down Lex Luthor over the course of a two-month summer internship.

Lana’s still reeling over that particular piece of information.

She laughs, disbelievingly, and runs a hand down her face, sending out a prayer to wherever Annabeth decides to go next. She suspects they’ll need it.

As Annabeth pushes open LexCorp’s heavy glass doors for the last time this summer, she feels a bit like she’s walking away from a dramatic, fiery explosion. Except, the explosion has already happened, and she’s already picked up all the pieces and restacked them, following a carefully crafted design.

After all, Annabeth is an architect.

Chapter Text

“Just to make sure I’ve got this whole thing right, you’re telling me that the Greek gods—”

“And Roman,” Rose adds, helpfully.

Dennis pauses. “Yes, and Roman. You’re saying that they’re all… real.”

Annabeth and Percy fidget in their chairs. They have been to Dennis’s house before, have sat at this exact dining table before, but that time, they had been role-playing court testimony scenes, not dropping life-altering information. Back then, Annabeth had been the prosecutor. This time, she feels like the witness, her entire life story laid bare.

It’s been almost a week since the trial, Annabeth and Percy deciding to make the house call now, as opposed to spilling the beans at the after party so that everything was a little calmer. Now that Annabeth has moved out and back into the Jackson-Blofis apartment for the remainder of the summer, and Dennis has returned to his quiet life in the suburbs, his daughter and grandchildren visiting again from their own place thirty minutes away, the timing has proven to be perfect. The lack of an extraneous peanut gallery (Leo) had definitely not also been taken into account.

Over the course of the last hour, they’ve given Dennis a little more exposition than necessary about their hidden world and gone on several tangents about the complexities of demigod life, but Annabeth sees now that it may have been a little too much information for an initial discussion. It’s quite fortunate the two adults in the room have summed it up nicely into a single sentence. Annabeth still thinks they should start to put together an orientation film catered toward parents and other mortal family members despite Chiron’s hesitations. (He still refuses to share what went so wrong during the creation of the first one.)

Percy scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “Um, yeah. Pretty much.”

“Your father is Poseidon, and your mother is Athena?”

Dennis looks between Annabeth and Percy a few times, as if ensuring that’s the story they both would like to stick with. Annabeth nods.

From the Bryants’ living room, Ethan jumps out from behind the couch and lets out a playful snarl and a “Boo!”, making Clara giggle at his antics. Estelle, on the other hand, impishly bares her teeth and sits on him. Maybe Percy has been letting her watch one too many of their spars.

Dennis and Rose both ignore the horseplay and continue staring back at them from across the dining table. The man’s jaw is twitching like he’s still trying to figure out if they’re being serious, while his daughter just looks plain thoughtful.

“We could prove it?” Annabeth offers, because that’s usually what comes next in this sort of thing, and gestures to the glass of water before her, “Percy, could you—”

Suddenly, Dennis makes eye contact with her.

“Goddess of wisdom, and what was it, battle strategy?” he asks.

Again, Annabeth nods.

He huffs, shifting his weight to the back of his chair and letting his arms rest comfortably on the table.

“Then I believe the last two months is all the proof I need.”

Annabeth’s face suddenly feels very, very warm. Percy props an elbow onto the placemat before him and turns his face to look at her dopily.

“That’s my wise girl,” he grins proudly, green eyes flashing with a look that makes her blush deepen just a little.

Annabeth’s lips twist, trying to keep the embarrassed smile off of her face. She tries to school her expression, but every single muscle twitches upwards, refusing to come down.

Rose clears her throat. “I believe you, I do,” she says hesitantly, “But I’d still like to see the magic trick.”

Percy laughs, and without turning his face away from Annabeth, flicks his hand. The liquid from the glass floats out, hovering a few inches above the table and she hears two soft exclamations of surprise. Then, Percy’s finger twitches and the water forms a small wiggling heart.

“Seaweed brain,” Annabeth says, fondly, and out of pure reflex. Her cheeks feel permanently pink.

Rose stares at the small display, wide-eyed and silent for a minute before holding out a hand, palm up. Dennis sighs gruffly and reaches into the back of his pants. He digs two worn-out bills from his wallet and forks them over with another dramatic sigh.

Annabeth raises an eyebrow at them.

“I guessed alien or meta,” he says glumly, as Percy returns the water to the glass.

“And I said anything besides those two,” Rose adds with a small grin, as she pockets the two hundred dollars and winks, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the kids know who really paid for their new toys.”

Annabeth thinks Rose then catches the ever so slight look Percy sends her at that statement, because the woman frowns, turning slightly serious.

“Is there… something else you want to tell us?” she asks.

Annabeth sighs and tucks a stray curl away from her face. No matter how many times she does this, although the process becomes smoother, it never really becomes easier.

“Your kids saw through the mist, that veil I mentioned, that hides the mythological world, and while that’s not exactly a guarantee, I also noticed that you don’t talk about their father or have any pictures,” Annabeth explains, almost apologetic, “I’m not trying to pry, but there’s a chance that Ethan and Clara are demigods themselves.”

She lets those words hang for a minute, trying to gauge their reactions. Neither of them looks very much surprised, but Dennis’s gaze wanders to the children, now showing Estelle their toys, trying to outdo each other on which stuffed animal’s name will make the girl laugh the most. Annabeth can imagine what Dennis is thinking: how these kids, with their playful innocence, could be descended from beings with such complex and violent histories. We grow up fast, the silent answer comes to her without much thought.

Rose, on the other hand, purses her lips, clearly conflicted.

“But—,” she starts, then pauses, thinking hard, before finally asking, “Is there a way to know for sure?”

“They’re still pretty young to be officially claimed, but yes,” Annabeth replies, then turns her attention to the living room and raises her voice, “Stella! Can you come here please, and bring your friends?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Percy reach into his front pocket, and elbows him sharply in the side, procuring a small celestial bronze needle instead.

“Yeah, that’s probably better,” Percy mutters, shoving Riptide back into his pants.

After shooting him a fondly exasperated look, she holds the thin needle up to the light, and demonstrates how it passes harmlessly through Dennis’s hand, then Rose’s. They tense, expecting the sharp pain but jump when they see the metal come clean out the other side.

Estelle emerges from the doorway with a chain of clasped hands, tugging the twins along like train cars. She deposits them in front of Annabeth with a beaming smile and then climbs into Percy’s lap.

Annabeth gently asks Ethan and Clara for their hands, and after turning to their mother who gives them an encouraging nod, they watch curiously as Annabeth presses the needle gently to the tips of their fingers. Twin pinpricks of blood bubble up, and she lifts their arms for the rest of the room to see, before brushing the red away.

Percy whistles. “Oh yeah. The little munchkins are demigods alright.” He makes a face at them, and they giggle in response.

Not every mortal parent is like Sally or even her own father, who had come around eventually, a fact that Annabeth knows far too well. She looks up, worried about Rose’s reaction, but the woman shakes her head firmly, as if she can sense the hesitation.

“I wouldn’t have had kids if I wasn’t capable of loving them no matter what,” Rose says, looking over the twins adoringly, and Annabeth feels the relief like a sharp stab.

Dennis gives a harrumph of agreement, an expression on his face that mirrors his daughter’s, and Percy nods approvingly, or as best he can with his chin tucked into Estelle’s shoulder.

“So,” Annabeth starts, eyeing Ethan and Clara under a more analyzing lens, “Their father, did he give you a name?”

Rose trades a hesitant glance with Dennis, and says, “No…”

“Do you remember what he looked like?” Percy cuts in.

Annabeth hums. “Percy and I have met a good portion of the gods, so we may be able to recognize a description.”

While some half-bloods get features directly from their godly side like Athena’s grey eyes, others aren’t carbon copies of their parents. Unfortunately, Ethan and Clara don’t have those extremely identifying features, and aren’t exactly old enough for them to make assumptions based on personality or interests.

Rose slowly shakes her head. “No, actually—”

“That’s okay,” Annabeth frowns absently, “They’re a little too young for any specific hobbies that might help us figure it out.”

“And even then, there’s still time before they would need to go to camp,” Percy adds, shrugging, “So it’s cool if we don’t know just yet.”

“Guys,” Rose says, loudly, to get their attention, and, with another look to Dennis, continues “There isn’t a father, I—"

Annabeth and Percy both see her mouth form the rest of that sentence, hear the words loud and clear, but it’s too ridiculous to process. Percy’s jaw hangs dumbly.

“Oh,” Annabeth says faintly, “That’s a problem.”

Percy brings his hands out from around his sister and buries his head in them.

Annabeth blinks herself out of shock. “At least,” she pauses, “I think we’ve narrowed it down to two options.” She looks over at Percy. “Yeah?”

He just groans in response.

Dennis scratches his stubbled chin, not exactly looking confused, but like he doesn’t really understand the issue. Annabeth doesn’t blame him. He’s only learned about the mythological world two hours ago and doesn’t really have all the details about how it works. In that moment, Annabeth wishes she were in the dark.

Finally, Percy pries his fingers off of his eyes and looks over to her, utterly miserable.

“Should we iris message them, or is this more like a house call kind of situation?”

After Lex Luthor, Annabeth doesn’t really know what she wants.

Months ago, before all of this, she had a purpose, a very specific goal. And then, Luthor happened, and Annabeth had never been one to just ignore a major problem, especially not when she was in the perfect position to actually do something about it. So, for weeks on end, she had focused on exactly one thing, the destruction of Luthor, and almost nothing more. Still, she’d never forgotten about her original intention, the thought collecting dust in the back of her mind like a trophy waiting to be claimed, but somewhere along the summer, her plan had become less about herself and more about Lana and LexCorp and making sure Luthor could never ruin lives again.

Mostly justice and a bit of personal satisfaction, is what she had told Dennis.

It surprises her just how accurate that ratio has become.

But where exactly does that leave her?

Sitting at the Jackson-Blofis kitchen counter, staring into a plate of cut-up fruit and wondering if what she had wanted all the way back in April is still what she wants now. And the worst part is, she doesn’t know.

What does she want? That’s the million-drachma question. What does Annabeth Chase want?

A few months ago, she thought she knew. An internship at one of the most well-known companies in the world would have done wonders for her resume, not to mention all the cutting-edge technology she would get to play a part, however small, in developing. Except, that’s exactly what LexCorp had provided. Despite all the stressful times she had endured, she had had fun, real fun during her summer in Metropolis. The issue lies in the fact that most of what that fun had revolved around is currently sitting behind bars in federal prison.

The internship itself had been eye-opening and the source of a wealth of knowledge, but it hadn’t really felt like her. She had thought she wanted to get into tech, and now she realizes how much she has missed architecture and the familiarity of her half-blood community.

Annabeth warily eyes the opened envelopes on her counter. The unfolded re-enrollment forms for New Rome University are somewhat taunting. There are still a few weeks left on the deadline, which is generous by mortal standards, but as a largely demigod university, they understand the speed at which circumstances might change. Annabeth wonders if she should just fill them out and call it a day.

She misses the ease she feels amongst fellow demigods, the way she doesn’t need to hide her scars or filter her words, doesn’t need to make excuses for the gold dust in her hair like she has had to several mornings at work, doesn’t need to behave, by mortal standards, perfectly normal.

Some demigods flit easily in and out of the mortal world, but Annabeth has been a year-rounder since she was seven, and any stints at regular school since then have been rudely interrupted by quests and prophecies and wars.

Annabeth sighs, fingers plucking the forms off the counter and reading through them like she hasn’t done it twice already. She really could just sign and be done with them. But, her brain nags, what about the plan? It’s all set up, she just has to—

“Have you decided yet?” Percy’s voice sounds, a sweet relief among the self-conflicted thoughts she’s been marinating in for possibly over an hour.

“Have you?” she deflects.

Percy blanches. “Yes! No. I mean, I filled it out, but I just have—” he sputters, then hangs his head.

“To mail it?” Annabeth snickers.

Percy grins nervously, but she assures him he still has the time.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he then prods, leaning his back against the fridge.

“It’s weird not knowing,” she says, pursing her lips, “I mean, I’d be happy, going back to NRU. I already have my list of classes picked out if I do, and I’d enjoy it, but…”

“You wouldn’t be satisfied,” Percy finishes for her when she trails off. He scrunches his face in thought. “Then maybe you should see it through to the end?”

“I think I was wrong,” Annabeth sighs, the words bitter but all too freeing, “The technology part was cool and all, but really, I just miss designing.”

“And I thought a civil war cannon at a museum couldn’t actually be loaded, but I, too, was wrong,” Percy replies, with a dramatically sullen tone. Annabeth knows exactly what he’s doing. The problem is that somehow, it works. She snorts softly, and Percy drops the act, shrugging, “But seriously, if you’ve gotten this far, you could probably just ask for something more up your alley. I doubt they’d say no.”

Annabeth tilts her head, considering. “You’re right,” she says, folding up the re-enrollment forms for now and tucking them back into the envelope, “Who says I can’t negotiate?”

“So,” he replies, watching her movements with sharp eyes, “What now?”

Annabeth picks up her previously abandoned fork, spearing half of a strawberry on the end, and smiles.

“Now we wait.”

Annabeth’s phone rings in the middle of dinner, just a soft buzzing against her thigh that barely interrupts her conversation with Sally about the character development in her new novel. Percy hears it, and directs his mom’s attention towards him instead, so Annabeth can take the call in the kitchen.

She peeks at the caller-id before placing the device to her ear.

“Would you like to explain to me why Lois just called me saying she received another anonymous packet of evidence?” Lana’s tense voice filters through the speaker, “She wouldn’t say what was in it, but she sounded rabid, Annabeth. Even Clark is concerned.”

Annabeth presses her lips together from coming off amused. There’s no need to keep up pretenses anymore, so she answers honestly. “Luthor’s got a secret lair at an art museum called Caesar Contemporary. Tell Lois she can get in by shaking the hand of the Caesar statue, and she’ll find much more than what was just in that envelope.”

“How do you know that?” Lana sounds like she’s being strangled over the phone. “Annabeth why do you know that?”

She bites her lip harder. “Luthor’s lawyers needed a very good reason to not defend him in court, so I gave them one.”

“Right,” Lana says faintly, as if just now remembering, “That was you.”

Annabeth does laugh now, a short snicker that makes Lana sigh exasperatedly over the phone.

“And what am I supposed to say to Lois?” she asks, and Annabeth can practically hear the raised eyebrow and the hint of a smile.

“To make desk space for her Nobel prize?” Annabeth jokes, then more seriously, “I mean, I would prefer if you kept this to yourself, but if you really want to tell her and Clark, I won’t stop you.”

It’s Annabeth’s genuine opinion. Having Superman and Metropolis’s most ambitious reporter know about her would probably put her under intense scrutiny, but at the very least, Annabeth knows they are good people.

Lana is silent for a few long seconds before finally speaking up.

“I’ll keep your secret,” she says, tone softer, “But later, when things here aren’t as hectic, I want to know how you did it, as much as you want to tell me.”

Annabeth rolls that proposition around in her head. It’s open-ended, share as much as you’re comfortable with, not a bad offer at all.

“I’ll do it,” she decides, and promptly feels the full force of Lana’s smile when she says thank you.

The next day, Percy has the morning off from the swimming lessons he’s been giving over the summer to the kids at the nearby community pool. He has the free time and Annabeth decides they’ve been putting off their visit for too long, so she has him throw on some relatively appropriate clothing and leave the apartment with her. She has to practically drag him to the empire state building, but she understands the reluctance. She feels it too, just hides it better.

The elevator up to the six hundredth floor is longer than usual, and Percy spends the entire time glaring at the speaker in the ceiling, blasting some horrendous acoustic rendition of a pop song. Annabeth, on the other hand, keeps her eyes closed, gathering courage for the conversation to come.

Zeus appears in a shock of bright light the moment they step foot into the throne room, as if he has been following their movements since the elevator doors opened.

“Jackson and Chase,” he thunders, eyes flashing, “Your status does not permit you to enter Olympus uninvited. How dare—"

“Call them.”

Percy taps his foot impatiently.

“Who?” Zeus snaps back, irritably, metaphorical feathers thoroughly ruffled.

Her boyfriend turns to look at her as if to say, ‘Can you believe this guy?’

“You know who,” Annabeth sighs.

The king of the gods narrows his eyes at them, and at one point Annabeth thinks they might actually have to be more specific, but then Zeus sets his lips thin, deeply displeased. His hand tightens around his master bolt and the weapon cracks twice, making the thrones shake.

The room brightens painfully, Percy and Annabeth shutting their eyes in preparation. When they peel their eyelids back open, Hermes walks forward grinning good-naturedly, and Apollo raises his hand in casual greeting.

Annabeth glares at them, and Percy takes a deep, tension-charged breath.

“Which one of you absolute idiots donated to a sperm bank?”

Faces instantly pale, Apollo and Hermes point at each other.

Sally’s living room is an utter mess, colored pencils strewn haphazardly across the carpet. Estelle is laying on the ground, stomach against the carpet and red crayon against a piece of paper with a black outline of a horse. Annabeth is sitting on the floor inches from her, legs splayed out, with her back pressed to the bottom portion of the couch, scratching precise lines with a sharp pencil into the sketchbook in her lap. Above her shoulder, Percy sits on the sofa noisily slurping on a juice box and making the odd comment about Estelle’s drawing or Annabeth’s blueprint in progress. As it turns out, it’s Hermes’s cabin, not Apollo’s that needs renovations.

(In terms of emotional trauma, Percy had ranked the council meeting following that revelation fairly high in their list of past experiences, saying that he would rather they vote on his execution again than participate in another argument about the moral implications of subjecting half-bloods by artificial insemination to a life of constant fighting. Annabeth had agreed, vehemently. A new decree had been passed that very same day forbidding it.)

Percy hums, and Annabeth sees one of his fingers enter her field of vision, pointing to where she had added extra bunk space to the end of the south wall.

“Don’t put them there. It’s kind of far from the rest of their siblings,” Percy muses, “And there’s a chance they might feel distant already, you know, being demigod donations and all.”

Annabeth chokes, her pencil leaving a surprised streak across the page that is definitely not part of the design.

“Oops,” he mutters, grinning wide when she tilts her head to meet his eyes. It’s not funny. She glares at him, but then a musical ring echoes from the entrance of their apartment.

“Saved by the bell,” he says, laughing, and gets up to answer the door with his juice still in hand.

When Estelle sits up and stares at her, Annabeth tilts her sketchbook so she can see the angry line.

“Percy messed me up,” she informs the girl, and Estelle gasps, looking offended on her behalf.

From down the hall, Annabeth hears the click of the lock and the creak of the hinges as Percy pries the door open.

“Hello.” The tone is strange, deceivingly light for how deep the actual voice is. “I’m looking for Annabeth Chase.”

“Hey wise girl,” she hears Percy more clearly, probably turning away from the door to address her, “Wayne’s here.”

Annabeth is standing on her feet before she knows it, striding towards the front entrance with a curious Estelle at her heels.

Bruce Wayne is already looking at her when she comes into view from around the corner, hands casually resting at his sides. He’s a lot rougher in person than she had expected. It seems most of the media-circulated pictures have been slightly digitally altered to smoothen out skin texture or tone or both. Closer up, she can see faint wrinkle lines across his forehead and a few gray strands of hair combed back with gel. Age does not deter from the hardness of his features, however. As she approaches, Annabeth has the vague impression of being examined, like she’s being picked apart at the seams by a careful surgeon.

“Oh, good,” he says, “You know who I am.”

Wayne doesn’t smile, but his face maintains a murky sort of pleasant expression. He isn’t tense either, but he holds his body almost carefully, as if he is deliberately staying very still. The feeling of being watched doesn’t dissipate, so Annabeth watches him back.

Percy sucks noisily on his straw from his place at the door.

Wayne blinks first, shifting his gaze a few inches. “Cute baby,” he says, mildly, and Annabeth fights the urge to hide Estelle, “Is she yours?”

Percy double takes, spraying apple juice all over Bruce Wayne’s no doubt expensive shoes. The man glances down, something ticking in his features before it’s replaced by a slight grimace.

“I didn’t mean to offend,” he offers.

“She’s my sister,” Percy insists, scandalized.

As he walks over to take Estelle’s hand, he murmurs a ‘be nice’ into Annabeth’s cheek before leading his sister back to her room. Annabeth smiles involuntarily, before schooling her expression.

“May I come in?” Wayne asks, after Percy has disappeared around the corner.

“We can talk in the kitchen,” Annabeth says, wordlessly beckoning him to follow.

At the dining table, Wayne tells her to call him Bruce, and then folds his hands on the placemat and falls quiet. The silence between them is strange. It’s not the lack of conversation that puts her on edge, but the way she cannot tell what the other man is thinking as he observes her. Annabeth is usually the one that analyzes first and talks second, but this time, it feels like Wayne is doing the exact same.

“It’s kind of funny,” she says finally, because they cannot play this game of mental chess forever, “Earlier this year, I thought of applying for a WayneTech internship, and now Bruce Wayne is sitting in my house.”

“WayneTech doesn’t offer internships to students currently pursuing their bachelor’s degree or lower,” he replies, like it’s a rehearsed answer. Practically word for word from the website, it probably actually is.

Annabeth hums, disappointed. “I know.”

He ponders those words for a few seconds. “You went with LexCorp then,” he remarks. Annabeth nods, but she’s just confirming something he no doubt already knows, “I heard that you attended Luthor’s trial. What did you think of him?”

Annabeth can’t help the way her lips twist downward, like just the thought of Luthor is distasteful. “A psychopath masquerading as a god. He thought he deserved to rule the word. I thought he needed a reality check.”

Bruce tilts his head considering. She can’t fully tell, but she thinks he might be surprised by the hostility in her voice. Annabeth stares at him coolly, refusing to take her words back.

Instead of waiting for a more verbal response, she continues. This time, it’s her turn to ask a question she already knows the answer to. “I was under the impression the trial wasn’t televised, and it’s a little early for them to release the judicial proceedings.”

“My son expressed interest in attending,” Bruce says, but pauses, and doesn’t explain further.

“Timothy,” Annabeth replies, suddenly understanding what game he’s playing.

She remembers that black-haired boy very clearly, having recognized him at first sight. LexCorp and Wayne Industries being intense rivals, especially in the technology department, Annabeth had known that someone from the latter company was going to be at that trial. She hadn’t known precisely who, but Timothy, the alleged business prodigy, had been a lucky surprise. More so when she had realized that he and Clark knew each other. The reporter had written a few fluff pieces on the Waynes years ago, but Annabeth hadn’t known that they had remained close enough to sit beside each other and make conversation at murder trials.

“Yes, Tim,” Bruce nods, getting the confirmation she had already known. “He said something interesting about you, that you seemed to know one of the witnesses,” he continues, eyes narrowing just fractionally, “What’s your relationship to Dennis Bryant?”

“We’re not related, no, if that’s what you’re asking,” Annabeth replies, “I just happened to meet him, and ended up helping him out.”

“With what?”

“Gathering the courage to do something he couldn’t for a while.”

Bruce stares at her, hard.

He’s also a little more serious than she had expected. He regards her with a strangely stoic façade, despite all the things she’s read about his past as a somewhat ditzy playboy. Perhaps, over the years, all of his many kids have worn him out. She doesn’t know much about them besides Timothy, or Tim, as Bruce had called him, but somewhere on the internet she had seen the unconfirmed count, and it had rivaled that of some of the minor gods.

Bruce presses his lips together briefly.

“I also heard that a large chunk of the evidence used to arrest Luthor was anonymously dropped off to Clark Kent,” he says, with the same oddly light tone.

If Annabeth closes her eyes and ignores the way the man refuses to even blink, lest he miss something in her expression, it’s almost as if they’re having a pleasant, run-of-the-mill conversation.

“Clark wasn’t home,” she corrects, a corner of her lips twitching up, “Lois was the one to receive it.”

“Miss Chase,” Bruce says, the lines in his forehead creasing in the way it looks like they have been doing for years, “What you’ve done here—”

“Hypothetically.”

He pauses, thinking hard, then restarts.

“Let’s just say that Luthor’s been a thorn in my side for quite some time now,” Bruce pauses again, so briefly that someone other than Annabeth would have dismissed it as simply taking a breath, “What with all of his recent tech contributions to the market.”

“And all the immoral criminal acts and other general human rights atrocities,” she can’t help but add.

“Right. Those too.”

Bruce stares, even harder this time. It never quite works up to a glare, though, so maybe he’s not actually trying to intimidate her. Even so, Annabeth just narrows her eyes slightly in response.

“What I’m trying to say is,” he finally sighs, one hand coming up to rub at the permanent creases in his face, “Perhaps Wayne Technologies would be able to bend the rules a little and make an exception. Miss Chase, I’d like to offer you a job.”

Annabeth doesn’t react at first, too busy processing the words that she’s been waiting, planning, to hear for months now. There’s still so much to discuss and so many details to hash out, but that one sentence makes her skin prickle with excitement at the thought of what’s to come. She still doesn’t know exactly what she wants out of Wayne Technologies, but something about Bruce and Tim and the way they had picked up on more clues than she had originally dropped for them, makes her insatiably curious. And that’s more than reason enough.

“If that’s of any interest to you,” Bruce continues, taking her silence as confusion or hesitation, “You don’t have to decide right away, we can set up an interview—”

Annabeth can’t help it, she snorts a little, the tension leaving her face. She folds her hands on the table to match his and leans forward with a small smile.

“Haven’t you realized,” she says, fixing him with the full weight of her gaze, “This is my interview.”