PERSEUS MEANS DESTROYER

Welcome Home, Son

All my nightmares escaped my head,

Bar the door, please don't let them in.

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"Perseus Jacskon, who are you?"

"I'm. I'm, just— it's there, it's on the file," Tapping his fingers on the seat, on his crutch handle, wherever he could.

You're going to die in here, you're dying, you're dying, they're going to kill you.

"But that's not it, is it? It's a neat little package with a lot of holes that we can't fill."

"And I can't fill them for you either! Not— no, I— I can't because I don't know you I don't—"

He knew he was in danger. His brain was yelling at him about it. But it wasn't any kind of danger he had dealt with recently—he couldn't whip out his sword and kill them, the Celestial Bronze wouldn't work on mortals, and murder was (at least the last time he checked) a crime punishable by lifetime sentences in high–security prisons.

She straightened up, raising her hands in what she hoped was a non–threatening matter. "Then get to know us. I expect you to be here on time tomorrow morning to meet your charge. Tony," she waved a hand towards him, "lift it."

Maybe a display of trust on their behalf could help.

What, they were just going to let him go? It had to be a trap.

What if they followed him home and got his mom? And Paul?

"J.A.R.V.I.S.; cancel lockdown."

Clanking raced through the floor as the rolling shutters retracted.

"You can leave."

By the time Percy got out of the building and to Central Park, it was close to eight PM at night.

By the time he realised he probably needed to call his mom, it was nine.

By the time he acted on that realisation and had located a payphone to call her with, it was eleven, and the sun had long since set.

By the time he had dialled her number and she had picked up, it was eleven fifteen.

He sank to the ground and curled his knees up to his chest, holding the receiver to his ear.

"Percy? Is that you?"

He stayed quiet, listening to her voice, to the sound of Paul rushing around in the background, fussing over Sally and her swelling stomach.

"Where are you?"

He imagined her end of the line sounded like static.

"Percy, honey, are you okay?"

He placed the phone back in its holder, hand lingering on the back. He eyed the quarter in his palm, but it wouldn't be enough for everything he had to say.

It was eleven–thirty.

By the time he had gotten to the bus station that would take him home, it was one in the morning.

By the time the bus showed up, it was close to one thirty.

By the time he got off, it was nearly two.