Alexandra Jackson

Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Cemetery of Heroes

Disclaimer – I own nothing Marvel or Percy Jackson and basically anything else referenced other than concepts made by yours truly.

Warnings – LGBT+ themes (nothing explicit), suicide and character deaths, although I wouldn't worry as my writing isn't fantastical, as revealed by my recent English Mock results.

Sydney Carter

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NOTE: THE REST OF THIS STORY IS UNEDITED CRAP FROM WHEN I WAS THIRTEEN. LUCY IS MEANT TO BE LUKE, NOT A GENDERSWAP LITERALLY MALE LUKE. ANDREW IS MEANT TO BE ANNABETH I APOLOGISE FOR BEING AN IDIOT. STARRYGIRL56 BROUGHT THIS UP WITH ME, SHE A GOOD FRIEND.

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The wind caressed her face with gentle brushes of its fingertips bringing her back to the reality of the pillars of support surrounding her, but at the same time, the wind carried the sickly scent of blood and death. Terribly potent. Terribly grotesque and terribly reminiscent of the moments that had just passed.

Time had stilled, at first, she'd anxiously gazed over the warped landscape expecting for her eyes to meet the piercing golden eyes of Luke before she realised it was her brain trying to process the monuments of death scattering the smoking field. A boot there, an axe from a minotaur over there, demigods weeping over a corpse just behind her.

She continued her paving a path through the remnants of chaos, her eyes scanning heartlessly over fellow campers. She'd later regret this action, but she was desperately seeking Annabeth's golden curls and sweetheart shaped face. Alexandra had seen her collapse several metres off mere minutes ago and a sensation she knew all too intimately teased her throat with its skeletal claws threatening at any moment to choke her.

"Alexa! Alexa!" A young childish voice called, footsteps pattering gaining volume of speed and noise as they increased in distance. Death gripped her shoulder and in mere seconds Alexandra in a whirl had slammed it into the ground, her hands easily switching from her trusty sword, Riptide, to the blade, Pyschi, attached to her hip. The black hilt gripped tightly in her hands, her knuckles white and red from strain as the tip glinted threateningly, resting against the offenders' dip of the collar.

Pure rage consumed her, Annabeth was nowhere to be seen and it was her fault, she would not rest until every monster in a twelve-thousand-mile radius suffered and turned to sulphuric ash before her eyes. She would not rest until Annabeth was in arms reach, alive and well. She would slit the throats of all...

Thousands of hands seemed to grab her upper arms, yanking her away from her kill, she vocalised her raw emotions, a yell so archaic it had featured in stories of the old and the new. But this time, it was real, it was the cry of pure grief and the scream for bloody murder simultaneously. Demigods nearby winced as the wail seemed to formulate into additional strength for Alexandra who was unwittingly about to murder and twelve-year-old in cold blood.

Alexa felt Riptide and Psychic be torn for her grasp and she sought for freedom and survival from beneath the writhing bodies of sweaty fellow campers forcing her to the ground spread-eagled and defenceless.