Loki felt the overwhelming confidence before Olympus' golden boy even entered the dungeons. Apollo wasn't even bothering to stifle the aura he gave off; masculine, youthful, powerful, arrogant…nervous as all hell. It was a hit to every single one of his senses in the worst of ways. Asgardians weren't much for magic and even the more talented seidhr barely had any aura to note. Frigga and he had the most substantial auras on the Realm, go figure.
Well, before a certain someone stepped through the Bifrost. Apollo didn't even have the mind to conceal his aura; Loki always kept his tightly under wraps lest it worm its way into some idiot's subconscious. No, it was much easier to weave between people that couldn't even pick up a shred of his intentions. Meanwhile, Frigga left hers blatantly open, just like Apollo, though hers was much more subdued and inviting and honest and comforting.
Loki kept his attention on his book, pretending not to notice as Apollo stepped into the edge of his vision. The page might as well have been blank. The hundred or so books in the pile Frigga or Thor or whoever got him might as well have been blank, as much as he cared. It wasn't like it was anything he hadn't read before or anything truly interesting so that to keep him occupied on a second or third read. Nothing but bland historic lies dressed up as lovely facts and dry literature and empty-thoughted philosophy.
Apollo cleared his throat once. Then again a few seconds later, and Loki finally found it in himself to entertain the god. He looked up and put on his best obviously fake smile. Apollo stood out compared to Asgardians. He was much too lean, too soft-looking. He did an excellent job of concealing his nerves through an aggressively strong stance and upturned chin. "Not many well-meaning visitors for me, I find," Loki said, looking him up and down.
Apollo came alone-no surprise that Odin would stay behind-flanked by three guards that stood at enough distance to maintain an illusion of privacy for the two. Loki wondered which one of them they were more interested in guarding. "I am Phoebus Apollo of Olympus, son of Zeus, and-"
"Yes, yes, we can all clearly see how bright you are," Loki cut off. He shut his book and tossed it behind him, using the basic magic he could in the cell to make sure it landed perfectly on the stack. Apollo didn't react outwardly, but his aura jumped in surprise, first with a tinge of anger at being interrupted, then with confusion. No doubt Odin had told him that the cells suppressed all magic, which was true for everyone except for a sorcerer worth their spells. Asgard wasn't used to dealing with those. "And, as you can see, I'm very clearly imprisoned."
Imprisoned. The word sparked a bit of remembrance in Apollo, a jumble of words and images, snakes and pain and Ragnarok-
"Ah," Loki breathed through the sudden nauseating tightness in his chest, "someone's been doing their homework." Loki conjured-well, illusioned. Damned suppression runes-a bouquet of curled blue flowers. Hyacinths. Apollo twitched lightly, his hands clenching at his side. "So have I."
"Sleipnir's sire must have been remarkable to produce such a wonderful steed despite the dam's poor temperament," Apollo replied. Loki used all his strength to keep from rolling his eyes. As if he hadn't heard that one before. Apollo finished, "and poor looks."
"Oh, come now, Apollo, no sense in taking out your frustrations on the lack of Nymphs to chase on poor old Loki." Loki released the hyacinths into mist and stood tall. "Or is that why you're here? To take out your frustrations?" Apollo stepped back. Loki smirked; he'd caught Apollo off guard. "Far-Shooting Apollo, I'd love to find out just exactly how far-"
"It'll be something to look forwards to when you're released from your cell," Apollo composed himself far too fast, leaning forwards in an almost predatory manner. Now it was Loki's turn to be eyed up and down and he decided he didn't like it one bit. He could've sworn his heart stopped beating for a moment though he couldn't tell if it was for surprise at being interrupted during…well, he wouldn't dare call that a flyt, or because of Apollo's change in demeanor. Apollo's golden eyes raked over him with palpable heat; his aura had completely changed, all bedroom, no nervous. "Though I suppose you'll need to keep projecting your pining for…oh, all of eternity, give or take."
And then Apollo turned and left with a smooth practiced swing in his step that called attention to just how his tunic was draped. Gods, Loki didn't know what he'd expected, but he was sure it wasn't that.
By the time Apollo was shown to his rooms to prepare for his welcoming feast he was beyond mentally exhausted. The Armory wasn't interesting, at least on first glance. Nothing seemed particularly powerful by Olympus standards; Hephaestus could probably make half the junk in there in an hour.
And his rooms were just as flashily boring. All gold and marble and linen curtains, no real substance. Sure, it had a huge tub overlooking the gardens, but where were the sculptures, the frescoes, the art? He supposed the careful trim on the walls could count, but still. And the bed was so comfortable he considered sleeping right then and there and forever, but what about the books, the poetry? The music at the feast had better be outstanding to make up for it.
Apollo wondered if it would be considered rude to provide his own music. It would provide the cultural exchange Zeus and Odin desired. Perhaps the Asgardians would ask him to sing, for fun. Apollo hummed to warm up his throat just in case. The cold dry air wasn't the best for vocals. Did they have ThroatCoat here?
He poked his head out of his room to the stupidly large hallway, turning one way and then the next to find someone to ask for a nice hot cup of tea; honey included, lemon on the side. No one.
"Yes, lord Apollo?"
Apollo whipped around and found a servant woman standing where it had been empty not a second before. He jumped back and cursed. How had he missed her? She wasn't easy to miss, right up in his face and all bright cheeks and silky hair and-Apollo cleared his throat. "I was looking for tea."
The woman nodded and turned to walk down the long hall. Where the hell had she come from? Was he that tired? Had someone drained him of his energy? Loki, perhaps. Apollo hadn't mentioned to Odin that Loki was still using magic in his cell, despite being assured that it was spellproof. Odin either knew or he didn't, and it wouldn't be any use to tip his hand so soon. He sighed and went back into his rooms, throwing himself on a couch dramatically, even for him.
Unless that was exactly what Odin wanted. Perhaps it was a test to see if he reported it, which would mean that Odin was in leagues with Loki, which would be a violation of the Treaty. And Loki had known that Apollo was familiar with his own stories, and he even knew about Hyacinthus. So, either Loki spent his spare time reading up on Greeks, or he was warned and told exactly what to say to anger him.
And Apollo had lost his temper, hadn't he? How long had it been since he was reduced to petty insults and taunts? Not even Hermes had pissed him off, not really, in the last few centuries. Apollo was better than that, certainly. He was nothing less than perfection; a muse of muses, a lyric amongst limericks. He had half a mind to go back down to the dungeons and figure out exactly what Loki-and Odin, he supposed-was up to, and the other half wanted nothing more than to set a never-ending sickness on the trickster.
Grief and anger swirled in his gut and memories of Hyacinthus mixed with the sight of Loki unprepared for him to snap right back at him. It was the same look of shock Zephyrus had worn when Apollo confronted him in his Thracian cave. Zephyrus was still afraid to have any more children.
A soft knock at the door announced the return of the servant woman, armed with a small plate and cup. "From Alfheim, tea of revelry."
Alcoholic tea? Exactly what he needed. "Thanks." He took the cup from where she sat it down on the small side table and took a sip. Not alcoholic. Damn. But still excellent. "Hey, what's your name?"
Charles frowned at the inconclusive results. He'd been trying to test the fur from Lyra's cloak since they'd finally gotten her to take it off a week ago, and still, nothing. It had taken surgical obsidian to cut off a small sample; two pairs of scissors had snapped on it, which cast doubt on it being any natural fur, or plastic, or much of anything Charles was familiar with. Storm had quietly expressed that it could be vibranium, but all the publications on the metal-which admittedly numbered in the single digits, all about Captain America's Shield, at that-insisted it could only be damaged by more vibranium.
But they had no other leads, and the origin of her leathers was giving him a similar headache. She didn't know, either. And she wasn't telling much of anything. When she wasn't trailing someone around like a lost puppy, Lyra kept to herself and read. The following was starting to get to Kurt. He was her favorite one to follow, for reasons she couldn't or wouldn't explain. She'd never seen anything like him, Charles figured. It was natural for her to be curious, and after a talk about boundaries with her, Lyra had kept much further back when she did follow.
At least she was taking her own initiative to do things. Her first day had been nothing but following directions and standing waiting for the next one, and now she was sneaking out of bed at night to fly through books in the library at astonishing speed or wander around the mansion or to rearrange furniture. That was a strange one, but Charles didn't mind as long as she left enough room for his chair to pass through.
She'd even participated in Sunday game night, though she didn't quite understand Monopoly. Then again, who did? Charles looked down at his ringing phone and frowned. Tony Stark popped up on the caller ID. He'd met the man years ago at a biotechnology expo that was more for billionaires to waste their money looking for the ultimate anti-aging cure or instant plastic surgery or frivolous whatnot than any actual scientific endeavor.
Tony had stood out as someone who almost cared about where his money went, and not just to the most profits. His arm had still been in a cast from his first foray into his 'Iron Man' suit design and subsequent disaster-really, did the man not have the word subtle in his vocabulary? At least he had been diverting his funds from weapons to developments on stick-on hydration patches being marketed as the latest skincare breakthrough instead of the lifesaving product that could provide a clean source of water or IV fluids that it was designed to be.
"This is Professor Xavier," he answered the phone. No use in being overly familiar with the man. He had an idea as to why Tony was calling; he knew about the nature of the Institute. How, Charles couldn't figure out. As far as he'd been aware, all files on Mutants were censored to everyone but the president and whoever was in charge of SHIELD. Money went farther than it seemed, perhaps.
"Charles! How's it been going?" Tony's smile was disarming, even through the phone. He couldn't even be mad that Tony disregarded his title; the man had more than his fair share of doctorates, as well. "It's been too long."
"It's been busy, to say the least. I imagine you're not calling to offer to process all this new legislation for me?"
Tony chuckled. "Well, I could take some of it off your hands, so to speak. Hey, listen, y'know I'm making the Avengers full time, right?" Yes, he'd heard, and thought it was the most foolish idea he'd heard in a long while. Tony didn't give him time to reply before he continued. "And you're still running that school for supers, right? Well, anyways, I was just wondering if you'd be interested in joining up. Let your students put those powers to good use!"
Charles hung up. Absolutely not. He had enough moral issues sending them to fight the Brotherhood, even if the lives and safety of all Mutants did depend on their work. Sending children to fight whatever decided to attack the giant target Tony had painted on his back? No. It wasn't too long ago Tony was more or less fighting entire wars for whatever the government told him to. Charles wouldn't work for those pencil-pushing murderers again.
His phone rang again, once, twice, three times. Charles picked up despite himself. "What, Stark?"
"Alright, maybe I came on a little strong. I don't mean actually send them into battle, guns blazing."
"Perhaps you should choose your alternative plan carefully."
"I have," Tony replied. "I mean working together to show the public that we're not dangerous. You know I've been doing that for a few years; using the suit to bring power all around the world, getting kiddos interested in engineering, that kinda stuff."
"For-profit under your company," Charles reminded him. He'd seen Stark Industries' charity donations. They'd gotten significantly bigger in the past few years, which wasn't hard considering Stark used to donate next to nothing, but Charles did a little digging and found that most of the benefiting charities were tangentially owned by Stark Industries or his close business partners. Maybe that was just the nature of the game when billionaires owned damn near everything, or proof of Stark's agenda.
"Look. We both want to make the world a safer place. I can get the government off your back. I've already gotten SHIELD off Dr. Bruce Banner-y'know, the Hulk-and almost off Captain America."
Now, that was something he'd like. Charles had barely managed to avoid a registration process for his students that included their powers and weaknesses in exchange for researching Mutant development for the government. Of course, they still hadn't figured that he was fudging numbers in his classified publications. "Go on," Charles replied.
"The more the public sees those kiddos being nice and helpful-like rescuing cats from trees, helping little old ladies cross the street, that kind of stuff-the more they'll accept them. X-Men Scouts."
"You do understand that they're children."
"Yeah, so they're not all that scary in the first place. None of them are in middle school, right? I can't stand eighth-graders."
Charles sighed. "And what about the Mutants that aren't my students? The ones that are very dangerous."
"Uh, did you forget the part where I have the Avengers to deal with shi-stuff like that? Absolutely no issue."
No issue, hah. Magneto would turn Tony Stark inside out. "You have no idea what these Mutants are capable of. Us going public would be dangerous for Mutants, dangerous for humans, everyone."
"Oh, come on. I have a literal god in my guest room. We can take on threats of levels metaphysical and lower."
"Throughout history, many Mutants were worshipped as gods," Charles replied. Including Storm, and she had more than just a guest room. "I'm not sure if you fully understand what I'm saying. I'm sorry, Tony, but I simply cannot accept. Not now. Perhaps one day if the Avengers truly do cement themselves as a force for good."
Tony was silent for a long while. "At the very least, let me give you funding so you can take in more students."
Olympus was all pomp and circumstance. Soft music played from somewhere and a light breeze of honey drifted through the gentle mountain roads. Thor wandered behind Hermes as he was led over clouds and meadow and cobblestone paths and marble to a giant temple that towered over the others. Everything was plainly ornate; white marble shone in colors of dawn and sunset, midday and night, with no correlation to the midafternoon sun above.
Women lounged off the roads, pouring wine from golden pitchers and laughing amongst themselves, not even seeming to notice Thor. He noticed them; they were all green, pink, blue, gold skin and ringing voice and careless beauty. "Nymphs," Hermes explained. Thor imagined he must've been staring. "Nature spirits. They hang out here from time to time, especially the Aurae."
"We call them Landvaettir," Thor said. The women froze and turned, their faces suddenly sharp instead of soft. They nodded at them and then blinked and went back to their leisure. He decided to keep his experience with the Landvaettir to himself.
"They're off limits," Hermes said. He didn't sound very happy about it. "The ones on Olympus, at least. Damn shame; they're the best ones." Thor didn't care; Jane was better than any Landvaettir, or whatever outlandish name the Olympians called them, and he was counting the seconds until he could leave Olympus and see her. Heimdall's updates on her had been sparse, though Thor imagined he'd been annoying the Bridgekeeper with his constant inquiries as to her activities.
Hermes cleared his throat and straightened, his strange mortal outfit shimmering down to draped Greek fabric. Apollo had worn a similar outfit; Thor wondered if he was cold on Asgard. Here, it was warm enough that Thor decided to leave his sleeves and cape behind for his next visit.
Finally, after passing dozens of Landvaettir and even more 'minor gods', as Hermes called them, flew overhead or meandered past, they reached the towering entrance to the temple at the peak of Olympus. Hermes suddenly grew to ten times his size, and pushed open the grand doors.
Giants. That's what they were. Ten giants, eleven, once Hermes joined them, sat on ornate thrones of every material in the universe. The single empty throne was almost too bright to look at, with scrolls and books and instruments piled around the base. Thor walked to the middle of the throne room and knelt. He wouldn't've done it if Odin hadn't drilled him on exactly what he was to do over and over and over until his ears rang.
Still, Thor had never thought he'd be kneeling before a council of giants.
"Welcome, Prince Thor of Asgard," Zeus said. Thor could feel the lightning bouncing off of the Olympian. "I have tasted your storms in the skies of Manhattan and, I must say, well done."
"Alright, what's the deal with the new girl?" Pietro spoke around a mouthful of sandwich. He didn't like the way she moved. It was too deliberate. He'd seen a ballet once with his…with Magneto, and the dancers all had complete control of every rippling, twisting muscle that fascinated and disgusted him. But this girl, Lydia or something, each step she took was way worse than the dancers'.
"Who?" Todd asked. Pietro shrugged at the X-Men table in the cafeteria, right in the center of the room. She wasn't easy to miss, even though she was hunched over peeling an orange. "Oh, her? Don't know her, but we got history together." Todd wiggled his eyebrows.
"Yeah, so do I," Fred added. Toad smacked his forehead.
"That's the joke, dipwad, we both got world history with her."
Lance dropped his tray on the table and sat down. "Are we already talking about the new girl?" Everyone nodded at him. "Cool. I think she has x-ray vision."
"Elaborate," Pietro pressed. He had always imagined that x-ray vision was a Hollywood power, but, then again, Mutations worked weird.
"You guys have class with her, too?" Lance waited for nods. "Did she, like, stare through the board? Like she could see through it?" He messed with the government-issued milk carton on his tray; it wouldn't open.
"No, she just looked pissed off and bored in calc," Pietro replied. "I think she's a vampire." He didn't have much to base it off of but her pale skin and aloofness, but hey, that was just as much of a case as Lance's x-ray thing. And he'd never guess that Kurt could teleport by looking at his blue ass; he'd sooner think fire or something else demon-y.
"Ha!" Fred laughed. "Vampires aren't real."
"As much as I hate to agree with Fred, yeah, that's fuckin' stupid," Lance said. He ripped off the top of the milk and drank some. "Dr. Baldy wouldn't let a bloodsucking vamp around his precious students."
The X-Men table erupted in laughter. Pietro craned his neck to watch; the new girl didn't react, unless popping an orange segment in her mouth was reacting. Maybe she made a joke or something? "He lets Cyclops stay," Todd said, miming shooting lasers from his eyes. "Pew, pew, pew!"
"You seriously think she's a vampire and not a mutant?" Lance frowned.
Pietro blinked. "Joking, duh." Lance rolled his eyes. "So, x-ray vision. Wonder how she's gonna use that against us next time Mystique sends us to get our asses handed to us wholesale," Pietro muttered.
"Damn, you're right. She's gonna beat us up," Todd concluded. He rubbed his arm; it'd been bothering him since he fell on it after Jean pushed him off an awning with a flying flowerpot. "I'm getting bruises just thinking about it."
Pietro looked over at their table. He imagined they'd have an assignment pretty soon; Mystique always liked to move when it looked like Professor X was about to get the upper hand, and adding on some new student had always ticked that box for her before.
Sure enough, Pietro hadn't taken two steps into Spanish when Mr. Garcia got a phone call from Principal Darkholme, calling him to her office. Great. He took his time walking there and plopped in a chair, waiting for Mystique to stop menacingly staring out her window.
"I imagine you have met Lyra Smith," Mystique said, changing her appearance from the uptight Mrs. Darkholme to her regular blue.
Pietro sighed. God, he was smart. "Yeah. What's up with her?"
"That," she paused to turn. All dramatics with this bitch. "Is exactly what I expect you and the Brotherhood to discover. She has no records, other than a sloppily faked birth certificate from Massachusetts. Not to Charles' usual standards." Mystique scoffed.
"How? From what I've seen, the X-dweebs are always with her." Not that that was any different than how they treated each other usually. They really only talked to themselves as far as Pietro cared to notice. He didn't like messing with them. They made his bruises sore.
"I expect to know her powers within the week. If that information isn't to me by Friday, well, expect to find out this weekend." She snapped a ruler against her palm, switching back to Mrs. Darkholme. "Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, ma'am," Pietro replied, fighting everything he had in him so he didn't roll his eyes and end up getting the deadline moved. He sent a quick text to the boys as he walked back to class. He frowned at the sounds of droning conjugation; Mr. Garcia was the slowest talker in the world, and that was really saying a lot. Pietro walked to his desk and turned to stick his tongue out at Evan, but stopped when he noticed the black hair right in front of Evan.
Score.
He had no chance of talking to her when Jean and Scott hovered around her in Calc, but now? Evan was already scrolling through his phone, not paying any attention to anything. He had one chance at this, and all he had to do was move faster than Evan. Easy as breathing.
Mr. Garcia finished his conjugation lesson and put a list of vocab up on the projector, announcing for them to practice pronunciation in pairs. Pietro jumped up and knelt by Lyra's desk before his usual partner, some greasy know-it-all, could turn around to sniffle in his direction.
"Hola como estas," Pietro said, "I'm Pietro. And you are…?"
"Woah, hold up, I'm her partner!" Evan protested, leaning forward over his desk and pointing his phone at Pietro. Some video played a flashy compilation of skateboarding tricks. As if he didn't have his own usual partner beside him; Lisa, the resident horsegirl. She looked like she was gonna cry, or neigh, or something.
"Oh, I didn't know she'd already asked you to the Sadie Hawkins," Pietro snarked.
"Evan! Teléfono!" Mr. Garcia called. Evan shoved his phone in his hoodie.
"Pietro stole my partner!" Evan snapped, and then shrank back as giggles went around the room. He sounded like a whiny baby.
"Steal Pietro's," Mr. Garcia shrugged. He picked up his sudoku book.
Evan stood up and stomped over to…Pietro still didn't know his name after half a semester of practicing Spanish with him daily. He flipped off Pietro as he passed. Lisa sniffed and doodled in her notebook. Whatever. It was time to woo the weird freshman.
"Hey, what's up? I'm Pietro," he held out his hand and quickly moved to run it through his hair when she didn't take it. No response, alright. "Yeah, I was just sitting over there and y'know we don't really get new students that often, so I just wanted to introduce myself. See, I'm kind of the welcoming committee here at Bayville High, and I'd hate it if you didn't get a warm welcome from the wonderful student body and stuff, so, anyways, how's your first day been?"
Lyra looked almost confused. "Those are not the words on the board."
Pietro frowned. She actually wanted to practice Spanish? Everyone else was already thumb deep in their phones under their desks or gossiping about what so and so wore that was just barely dress code. "Oh, yeah, right. Work first, talk later," Pietro recovered. "Let's go back and forth until we say all of them. I'll go first. Cuaderno."
Lyra stared at the board and squinted. "El…borr-borra…dor."
Wow. Her pronunciation was not the best by any stretch. But hey, whatever got to conversation faster. "Hoja de papel." And it went like that until they hit the bottom of the list, with Lyra doing her damned best to make something barely comprehensible and Pietro not correcting her like he was supposed to. "So, what brings you to Bayville?"
"My mother sent me here."
A little vague, but progress is progress. "To go to the Institute?" She nodded. Hell yes! A straight answer. Pietro was getting places. "I almost went there, too, y'know. I can do some cool stuff, but it just wasn't the right fit for me. I don't know about you, but I want to be as powerful as I can get. The Professor is too worried about staying secret to let anyone do any real training, so everyone over there stays pretty weak, no offense." He hoped she didn't know how regularly the Brotherhood got their asses handed to them by the X-Men.
She kept her face blank. "What do you mean?"
"Like, he doesn't want anyone to know about how strong we are," Pietro explained. "So they don't really do much. How long have you been there?"
"Two weeks."
"And how much training have you done?" Lyra didn't reply but looked down instead. Pietro pressed, "How much stronger are you?" He didn't wait for her to answer. "Exactly. If you really want to get better, I can show you how my friends and I train after school." Pietro stole a quick look at Evan; he was scowling at his partner. Lyra snapped to attention. "Is that a yes?"
"Aren't you with the Brotherhood?" She asked. Of course.
"Yeah, what did they tell you about us?"
"The Brotherhood is evil and wants to hurt people. I need to stay away from the Brotherhood."
Pietro couldn't help but to scoff and roll his eyes. Well, depending on the definition of evil, yeah. But hurting people? Never. He was even almost a vegetarian. "C'mon, do I look evil? We're just trying to be our best, and our best just happens to be a whole lot better than everyone else." He could see the gears turning in her head as she thought about it. "Y'know, if you come along, you can leave whenever you want. Just see for yourself what we do. You might like it a little better than the Institute, but you'll never know 'till you try."
Lyra nodded.
"Awesome."