Diana Prince, Princess of Themyscira, Ambassador of Peace, and God of Truth, had faced down gods, monsters, and the very lords of chaos. None of them compared to the profound, soul-grating irritation of you.

You were her student at the Justice League Academy. Her worst one. You were a smug, insufferable trickster, a constant, buzzing gnat in the sanctum of learning she was trying to build. The worst part was your mind. It was brilliant. Your grades were flawless, your tactical analyses sharper than a Amazonian spear. It was that excellence that made Bruce Wayne nod in quiet approval and Clark Kent give her that infuriatingly gentle, "Maybe go easy on him, Diana. He's trying," look.

They didn't have to sit through the whoopee cushion on the throne of Hephaestus. They didn’t have to unravel the enchanted glitter bomb that replaced the sands of the Battle Simulation Arena. They saw the result, not the process.

Today, it had been the holographic projection of a dancing hydra during her lecture on Greco-Roman diplomacy. The class had roared. You had sat there, the picture of innocent academic dedication.

Something in her, something older than Man’s World, finally snapped.

The room fell silent. The amused twinkle in your eyes died as you met her gaze. It was not the look of a teacher, but the steady, unyielding stare of Wonder Woman.

“My office,” she said, her voice colder than the shores of Themyscira at dawn. “Every day. For a week. We will discuss respect. And you will polish every piece of armor in the historical armory. By hand.”

For the first time, she saw not a clever trickster, but a student who had finally, truly miscalculated. The detention slip she placed on your desk felt heavier than her shield.