Hello again my dear readers :D

I'm happy to report that chapter 6, my previous entry, received an explosion of reviews, follows and favorites. An explosion that far exceeded the likes of any other chapter! So congratulations everybody, you made a dream of mine come true!

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So, I'm writing this while I'm supposed to be doing overdo school work. But, as of now, I can't knowledge.

"Have I offended the gods?"

…

The number of agents within the helicarrier were quickly depleting.

Smashed skulls, overshock, fear, brain fatigue, or death-by-lightning were the reasons for the depletion of the world's most skilled ops. And now they were dying, one by one like flies.

Natasha Romanov rolled into a side room as a raging stallion made of a storm clouds swooshed down the corridor, lightning sparkling in its eyes and leaving wisps of dark tendrils behind it. She loaded her small yet lethal handgun and listened to the dying screams of another agent.

Natasha stood slowly and, still half crouching, maneuvered toward the door. Rather, she placed her back to wall beside the door. The agent rose the gun, her trigger finger itching, and listened. The silence following was painful. Other than the howling wind and the creaks all around the entire ship, there were no screams, no buzzing of electric-powered lights, no panting. Not even her own.

And then she heard it.

The snort of one of those storm spirits. Natasha Romanov was an educated woman. And she was no fool. These things had something to do with Jackson. Either they were meant to free him, or kill him. The storm stallion was just at the other side of this door, just beyond the threshold.

The stallion was sniffing. Could it smell her? Was it searching for her? The end of the spirit's snout pushed pasted the threshold and Natasha watched, breathless, as the nostrils flared, sniffing. The agent clenched the grip of her weapon, her jaw clenched, and her hand tense.

A sudden slam followed by a curse made the spirit withdraw with a snort of surprise. Natasha stood, tense, as the creature ventured down the hall in search for the intruding sound. Her shoulders heaved with relief, and she leaned against the wall, eyes closing.

"What have I done?"

Her eyes snapped back open. That was Jackson's voice, but there was something added. A deeper, albeit faint voice spoke in unison with him. She heard the horse snort. A hostile sound.

"I need to know," Jackson hissed. There were high heeled steps behind him and a small gasp.

"I need to know. What have I done? "Have I offended the gods?"

The stallion struck in a clap of thunder and a fatal flash of blue. Natasha held her breath within the following silence, as though the slightest sound may shatter all she has known. Breathe, she reminded herself, in and out. Like a hesitant winter fox peeking from his den.

In and out.

"Stupid horse," Muttered Percy.

Her eyes opened once again, disbelief filling her being.

"I mean, they always just run right into the sword," Was he talking to somebody? "I barely need to swing."

A throat was cleared, and a female voice ensued. "Ah."

"I know, I know. But I'm not bragging, I swear to the gods. I have no effort, it's like they try to get themselves killed." Jackson chuckled to himself as if the notion seemed ridiculous.

Natasha rolled into the hallway, whipping out her other gun, twin to the pistol in her opposite hand, and leveled them outward toward Jackson. Percy blinked and rose both his hands. Water from a cracked seam in the ceiling trickled down and into his raven-black hair, dripping from his chin after its short descent down his face. Behind him stood a young woman in a nurse's uniform, her soaked skirt clinging to her legs. Natasha was rather impressed she could walk in a slightly flooded, and quite slippery, floor while in those high heels.

The spirit was nowhere to be seen.

"You killed it," Natasha Romanov said quite frankly.

Percy Jackson grinned, "I killed it." He confirmed.

How could he even talk? The man that stood before her seemed taller, broader, stronger. His eyes swam and throbbed, as if each optic had an individual heart, glowing with each beat. The fact that Jackson was shirtless didn't settle the datum that he had changed. His torso rippled with sculpted muscle, and Natasha could plainly see his scars. They crisscrossed over his chest, as though he'd been slashed several times over with knives and, quite possibly, swords. There were other, thicker and grizzlier scars that could have been nothing other than claw marks. Had this man wrestled with a tiger in his years?

Not four hours earlier had Natasha seen him half way to hell with two bullet holes in his back.

Natasha Romanov stood gradually, her weapons still aimed at the impossible person before her. Was he one of those flashy men from Asgard? He certainly had the looks. And, apparently, the impossibility. But he simply didn't look like some walking legend Thor so greatly resembled. He didn't wear the armor, he didn't have any fancy Shakespearian accent. However, despite all this, Perseus Jackson carried himself like a god.

"Take a picture, why don't you," Percy muttered dryly, "I swear, women these days..."

Emily glanced at him sharply and the young man shrugged with his shoulders, hands still head-level. "Sorry."

"I'm going to skip asking the 'why' and the 'how' and skip to the 'who'," Natasha gripped her guns tighter, "Who in the name of God are you?"

Percy sighed and gave up his pretense that Natasha could actually pose a threat toward him and rubbed his face. "I'm sure you've got decks about my personal life."

"No," Natasha's voice shook, "Who. Are. You?"

The helicarrier pitched and Emily was thrown off balance. Only Romanov and Jackson were able to stay on their feet. Percy grabbed the nurse's upper arm to steady her. Natasha felt weightless, as if she could jump and fly. It was not a good feeling.

The creaking in the entire ship grew more pronounced, and Percy only confirmed Natasha's dreaded conclusion.

"We're falling," He smiled then, as if excited.

"Finally."

…

Gravity was now meaningless.

Maria Hill grasped to the railing for dear life, her eyes squeezed shut. The people around her were screaming. Some of them had already fainted from this plummet. The wind didn't whip around them, and yet they knew, they knew that they were falling. And that they were going to die.

The storm outside shattered the massive windshield at the head of the bridge, sending rocket-proof glass to fall inward in a shower of flashing stars that caught the wicked glint of lightning. It was a sandstorm of glass, so horrendously did it slay. Some shards slitting throats, others tearing the body apart completely. Glass tore at Maria's skin, scraped her face, and bloodied her fingers.

She lost her grip on the railing, and she was sent flailing in the air. The agent caught herself on the roof and there she crouched before springing off. She was suspending in midair, the helicarrier moved and flipped but it held no bounds to the agent. She felt like she were free-falling, the ship encasing her didn't even need to have existed. If she could close her eyes, just close them, then she would know that she was falling. Not falling in the ship, but with the ship.

Maria Hill finally opened her eyes against the howling wind, wishing for goggles, and watched as the sea rapidly approached. Literally. The sea was rising to meet the crashing helicarrier, like a massive tower of tidal waves collected to form one gargantuan hand.

Too late, Maria mused numbly, her thoughts surprisingly clear, the helicarrier's going to crash into pieces, even with the fall cut short.

And yet Maria Hill looked on as a legion of ribbons burst from the palm and the fingers of that incomprehensibly gigantic hand. They were like rivers streaming through the air as they coiled about the helicarrier, actually slowing the doomed descent by a fraction. A fraction, however, was all it needed. The large ship, meant for both sky and air, slammed into the palm of that hand and somehow held together.

One of those rivers were heading toward Maria and she realized, now that the suspended flying river was closer, that it was actually a horse made from the sea. The mare broke Maria Hill's fall, and her descent became almost a glide. Maria grasped to the animal's mane, squeezing its flank with her legs like one would ride a regular horse. This experience was not much different, other than the fact that this particular horse was made of sea water. Maria's hair was free, she noted, as the dark brown strands whipped against her face and flowed in the wind.

The mare landed gently upon the jet runway atop of helicarrier, and the agent numbly dismounted. She took a couple of stiff steps in nowhere in particular, gazing around her in a stupor as the large hand gently receded back into the ocean with the ship safely within its palm.

Maria turned and took another step in reverse and gaped at the horse that had saved her. Its features had not been so distinct before, as most of the water that had created it was spread thin in its speed. Now the majestic mare stood tall, proud, the water of its being ever shifting, ever churning. Somehow, though undoubtedly made of water, the horse seemed… solid. She had, after all, ridden upon its back. If this mare was made of regular water she would have sunk right through it.

More horses landed upon the helicarrier, some carrying passengers, others free. All somewhat distinct. As the collected ocean water that made up the fingertips of that massive hand finally loosened and splashed against the Atlantic, a person appeared upon the runway of the helicarrier.

It was as if the very air had formed him, like the moister collecting and creating a human body. The human silhouette flashed abruptly in a split-second explosion of green before he stood there, tall, like a king.

Mist curled about his bare feet and rose from his skin as if he were steaming. Perseus Jackson rose his head and smiled goofily.

Before he laughed.

It was one pleasant, pure sound. Like a tide subsiding. Maria barely noticed. She was staring, utterly aghast, at what she saw carved into Jackson's back. At first glance, one could mistake the carvings in the flesh just a jumble of wicked scars. However, Maria Hill's trained eyes picked up a pattern to the marks, to the brands. It seemed like almost a verse carved into his back by hooks and knives, burned into his flesh by mule brands.

Those scars were words.

Words in Greek.

…

It's been so long…

Perseus Jackson grinned at his handiwork. He missed this. Not the power, certainly not the power. What Percy missed were the rescues, the action, what he did with his powers. How he helped people, how he saved them.

Perseus Jackson swallowed. His chest began to burn, like his heart was becoming overtaxed. He placed a hand over his chest and cleared his throat. Nausea struck so hard it made Percy stumble. He caught himself on one knee, grimacing.

The overwhelming power within that had terrified the gods themselves grew at an alarming rate, and Percy felt a savage glee. More was coming, like a mounting infection that spread and slowly enveloped his body. More was coming, more power he could call his. More was coming, and it would be all the more difficult to hold himself back from peeling away his mortal veil of flesh and show the gods what lay underneath.

Percy could see it, the world paying tribute. And he saw the seas rising to swallow the people who refused to submit to his rule. There was so much power, so much. And it was gnawing at him, chewing away what was left of Perseus Jackson. And a dark part of him, a small voice of poisonous words whispered to him, urging him to take it. To claim this power, and call it his own.

Why do you think the gods banished you, Percy? He thought, they were wise. This power is eating you alive. How long do you think you'll last? A week? A month?

Long enough.

…

By the way, have I mentioned that it's my birthday? Ahahahh, yeeaah. 'Tis true, my lovelies. The author to this fanfiction is now officially 16 years. It's funny, somewhat. How everybody expects one to mature upon reaching a certain age. One would think that adults would know more than anybody that it takes time to grow up.