Twisted from Percy Jackson and the Olympians
She looked at the world around her, smoke rising up, fire lighting up the night like fireworks.
Strange, it seemed like just yesterday she’d saved Olympus, still being the gods’ pawn. Camp Half-Blood, safe and sound in her ignorance of what she could be. But now she had achieved all that she could be. This entire world, hers for the taking. Nothing stood in her way … there had been a rebel group, of course, but she’d obliterated it. Everyone feared her now. It felt amazing.
The fire still burned, and while it danced in her eyes, she knew she’d have to leave before some stupid monster decided to pop up, not that she couldn’t kill it in one swift movement, but still, they were quite bothersome.
She gracefully leaped over the rooftops until she reached the fortress, the fortress she’d built. Seventy feet tall, towering over everything. All sleek, black obsidian and iron. Only the best military fortress ever built, completely impenetrable. She still remembered making the blueprints; everyone thought she was crazy, but she wasn’t. She built something greater, greater than Olympus, greater than the gods themselves.
Once she reached the ground, she fell lightly and stood in front of the door, a full DNA scanner going over and scanning her. “Queen Nightowl, admitted. Welcome back.”
She smirked and walked in as the computerized voice opened the door. It was quiet, alone, but not lonely. She knew exactly where her soldiers were, in their positions, like always.
Her boots clacked on the hard, dark floors as she strode down the hallway. Before, she’d never really considered herself a high-heels kind of person, but she hadn’t really considered herself a queen, either. She hadn’t seen her own potential, everything she could be. Now she saw that, and became it.
Coming to the end of the hall, she reached a door. Putting her hand on the scanner, she was admitted and the door swung open into a huge room, a huge, black throne that matched everything else in the room, but lined with Stygian Iron, a way of showing she had no care for the rules of the gods; she’d craft her throne with the very material that she supposedly wasn’t allowed to use.
Her boots clacking again on the hard surface, she climbed the stairs to her chair and sat upon it, lounging like the true leader she was. All of this, hers, and only hers. A terrible beauty that shrouded everything. But it was hers, and it was amazing.
Not a minute had passed as she sat there when a boy entered the room, about 14, maybe 15, with short brown hair and a posture that screamed newbie so loud the kid must have been recruited in the past week. He cowered a little, but managed to squeak out, “Your honor, there has been a breach. Most of the troops have been captured. The rebels are coming for you.”
She cursed, and then looked back at the boy, narrowing her eyes. “Let them come. Thank you for delivering this message; what is your name?”
He mumbled, “Private 487.”
She smiled coldly. “Well, 487, when this is over, I will promote you. Given that you aren’t slain in the process.”
His eyes widened in fear, but she could see underlying excitement and pride. Of course he was proud. He’d pleased her.
She laughed and shooed him away. “Go fight, young one. Try not to die. You amuse me.”
He nodded, scurrying off as fast as he’d come. The room fell silent, and she pressed a button on the side of the throne, revealing a door that slid open to reveal an array of weapons on the wall. She looked them all over, until her eyes fell upon a knife. Her first weapon; someone had found it in Tartarus for her. Her heart tightened at the sight of it, but she pushed the feelings aside. She grabbed it and felt its weight in her hand. Yes, this is the one.
She pressed a button on her arm, and armor spread over her body, covering her with its sleek Stygian Iron body cast. It was the perfect body armor, light yet strong. Perfect.
She then sat back upon her throne, closing everything, and twirling her knife in her hand, patiently waiting for the rebels to reach her. Like they’d have a chance. She’d been known to take out 10 men in one swift movement, calculating exactly where to go and where to hit. Quite simple, actually. She’d leveled a battlefield single-handedly in only 20 minutes once. That had been fun.
Then, she heard noises, swords clanging, and the satisfying sound of a blade hitting skin. She had no idea who it had been, but she’d grown to love that sound, as she’d heard it countless times before.
The door swung open and it revealed a tall-ish boy, muscled and pretty tan. He was bleeding, but not badly. His battle armor was very much Greek armor. His hair was black, very dark, and it looked familiar. …
Then the boy looked up. His face … oh, his face. She knew him. Except for the scar dragged across his cheek, and the gash across his forehead, he looked like all the times she’d seen him before. Memories … memories came flooding back. …
“Yes, I do! Don’t you get it? They could have saved them! Now there’s nothing left! No one is left! And it’s all the gods’ fault!”
“We could be gods, Percy! Gods! Your strength and my wisdom … we could rule the world! Don’t you get it?!? I’m sick of being a pawn when there’s so much I could do!”
“They have denied us the recognition we deserve for so long, I’m not turning back now. I’ve chosen my side. The gods will fall.”
“Loyalty, always been your flaw, hasn’t it? Never would you consider that maybe you’re fighting on the wrong side.”
“Rebel? Ah, I may be, but soon, you will be the rebel, Jackson. I will win this war, and all you will have left is that silly little group of loyalists.”
His voice jolted her back to reality. “—Annabeth?”
Her face tightened. “I don’t use that name anymore.”
His facial expression was blank, but she had learned years ago how to look past the face, and into the eyes. That was where his feelings were. And his feelings, they were terrifying. She could see sadness, regret, loneliness, fear, anger, but maybe most terrifying of all, she saw forgiveness. Love. Percy could forgive her for everything she’d done to him, to his world. And he still could love her after all that time.
He wavered, and she recognized the same old Riptide in his hand, with blood on the blade this time, and she was pretty sure it was human blood.
His gaze hardened and he rolled his eyes slightly. “Oh, what, do you prefer ‘Nightingale’ or whatever the Hades you call yourself now?”
She straightened her posture. “It’s Nightowl. Though, I do like ‘Your Honor’ or ‘Your Highness.’”
He rolled his eyes again. “Yeah, not calling you that.”
She frowned. “Too bad. Now, why are you here? Do you not understand my power? I am powerful, more powerful than you’ve ever known me, Jackson. I am capable of anything and everything.”
He took a deep breath, noticeably shaking. “I’m here to assassinate you.”
She froze, then let out a long, cold, laugh. “Oh, my, you were always the joking type, Jackson. Thinking you could kill me. That’s so amusing.”
His jaw tightened, and he shook his head. “Chase, stop. Don’t make this harder for you; you’re good, but you’re not godly.”
She shook her head. “No, Jackson. You can’t kill me. You’re too afraid. And let’s face it; you’re too loyal for your own good. Isn’t that what made you lose in the first place? You’ll never kill me.”
He swallowed. “Shut up, okay? Just shut up and fight me; if you’re as good as you say you are, prove it.”
She shrugged. “All right.”
Hopping down from her throne like a cat, her eyes danced in anticipation. It would be interesting, sword against knife, but she knew she could take him. She’d been training for this ever since she started rebelling, and she hadn’t stopped even when Olympus had fallen. The entire world had fallen into her hands, her dreams coming true, but she didn’t let herself off the hook, not for a moment.
Pacing around him, she smirked, daring him to make the first lunge. She wanted to see everything he’d learned since they’d last fought. And he did, a move that would have caught anyone else off guard, but not her. She dodged it, and attempted a jab with her knife. He also dodged it and tried a stab with Riptide, to which she parried and while he was distracted, kicked the sword out of his hand, sending it flying to the other end of the room.
He looked after it, trying to run to get it, but she kicked him down to the ground, pinning him there.
He let out a gasp, and she could see everything in his eyes, every single emotion, and for each a different memory. His voice was shaky when he wheezed out, “Annabeth … you … don’t have to do this … please.”
Everything flashed before her eyes, the first time she met him to their first quest. From their first kiss to when he went missing. From getting onto the Argo II to
Tartarus. And then, the worst of all, when she left him there, at Camp Half-Blood, to join the uprising. She’d let her own hubris rip them apart, but she could save him. There was still a chance, she could give up everything and be with him again.
But she wasn’t going to do that. She couldn’t lose everything, all her hard work, her ambitions fulfilled, she was the leader of an empire.
She looked down at him. “Oh, but I do. I’m sorry, Percy, I’m really, really sorry.”
And then, she drove the knife into his heart.