λιακάδα ☀️ Pjo x Mcu WTM¹

Don't Come at Percy, He'll Kill You With a Sword

Chapter One: I Accidentally Vaporize my Pre-Algebra Teacher

The demigods laughed and Percy groaned before rolling his eyes at his friends, "Why do the fates hate me?" Hemera looked at him, "Because you're a dumbass." Percy threw a pillow at his best friend and she stuck her tongue out at him.

Clint blinked, "How do you accidentally vaporize someone?" Apollo looked over at him, "There was this one time..." Hermes slapped a hand over his mouth, "You said you wouldn't say anything."

Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood.

Hemera snorted, "Strong Start." Percy nodded, "Thanks."

If you're reading this because you think you might be one, my advice is: close this book right now. Believe whatever lie your mom or dad told you about your birth, and try to lead a normal life.

Being a half-blood is dangerous. It's scary. Most of the time, it gets you killed in painful, nasty ways. 

The gods held looks of concern, well, except for Hera and Zeus, as the demigods nodded.

If you're a normal kid, reading this because you think it's fiction, great. Read on. I envy you for being able to believe that none of this ever happened. 

But if you recognize yourself in these pages—if you feel something stirring inside—stop reading immediately. You might be one of us. And once you know that, it's only a matter of time before they sense it too, and they'll come for you.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Leo looked over at him, "Well you didn't warn me." Percy frowned at him, "Because when you showed up, I was a kidnapped amnesiac across the country." Nico looked over, "You didn't warn me either." Percy paused, "Well- I- Shut up." 

Looks of concern were traded among the superheroes.

My name is Percy Jackson.

I'm twelve years old. Until a few months ago, I was a boarding student at Yancy Academy, a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York. 

Am I a troubled kid?

Hemera nodded, "Perc? Oh most definitely." 

Yeah. You could say that.

I could start at any point in my short miserable life to prove it, but things really started going bad last May, when our sixth-grade class took a field trip to Manhattan—twenty-eight mental-case kids and two teachers on a yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient Greek and Roman stuff.

I know—it sounds like torture. Most Yancy field trips were.

"Perseus Jackson!" Percy winced at his girlfriend's tone, "Yes Wise Girl?" She just sighed at him.

But Mr. Brunner, our Latin teacher, was leading this trip, so I had hopes.

Mr. Brunner was this middle-aged guy in a motorized wheelchair. He had thinning hair and a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket, which always smelled like coffee. You wouldn't think he'd be cool, but he told stories and jokes and let us play games in class. He also had this awesome collection of Roman armor and weapons, so he was the only teacher whose class didn't put me to sleep.

Jason furrowed his eyebrows, "Wait. Is that?" His girlfriend nodded and Tony couldn't help but ask, "Who?" Hemera shrugged, "You'll see soon."

I hoped the trip would be okay. At least, I hoped that for once I wouldn't get in trouble.