Vladimir was just finishing his letter home when his dormmate poked his head in.
"Hey Vlad, you done?" He asked in Irish accented-English.
"Da." Vladimir said as he placed his letter into an envelope. "What's going on Phelan?"
"You're going to be late. We're supposed to be studying for exams, remember?" Phelan asked.
"Gavno!" Vlad cursed. "I forgot. Let's go before the others decide to nail me to the wall."
"Spoilsport." Phelan quipped as he let Vlad pass him by.
"Very funny." He muttered to Phelan.
"I know. People are always telling me that."
"Why don't you do anything else that people tell you to do then?" Vladimir asked. "Like shutting up?"
"Where'd the fun be in that?" Phelan wondered innocently.
"I wonder if anyone else could be possibly as annoying as you." Vlad grumbled, hiding a grin. He was used to the Irishman's manners by now and was used to making exceptions for him.
"Nah, I like to think I've got the market cornered." Phelan said good-naturedly.
"Is everyone else waiting at the usual place?"
"We're just waiting for you boss."
"Don't call me that. It's inegalitarian."
"Whatever you say boss."
"Shut up."
Vladimir and Phelan stopped at their group's usual meeting place, a large oak tree at the border of the campus. There were seven of them, all told. They were generally referred to as the "Omega Hellions," a rather unofficial name for a rather unofficial group. They were an odd bag of new and old students. The only thing they shared was their status as "Internationals" and the fact that they shared a dorm.
Vladimir Sergeyevich Tubarov was their leader, insomuch as they had one. He was seventeen, a tall, wide-shouldered Russian with typical Slavic features: wide cheek-bones, green eyes, brown hair. His nose was strongly arched enough to suggest Jewish ancestry. He was from Moscow, before he was recruited to the Massachusetts Academy. He called himself a citizen of the Soviet Union. Vladimir was insistent on this. He had no love for the Russian Federation or any of the successor states to the USSR. Disgusted by the deterioration in living conditions, the increase in racial and ethnic strife, and the increasing poverty and decay all around him, he ended up embracing Marxism at a time when most others were abandoning it. Of course, few saw fit to question his ideological or philosophical views given his power to generate energy blasts from his hands. If he were of a mind to, he could probably do a fair imitation of Krakatoa or Chernobyl. Fortunately, Vlad would much rather debate Marx and eat Oreos than blow things up. He's an intellectual type.
Phelan O'Brien was an sixteen-year old Irishman from Cork, who stood somewhat on the short side, his face practically screamed "Irish!" with his red hair, green eyes, and freckled pale skin. He had the ability to make clones of himself that could operate as extensions of his mind or autonomously. His power was unique in that it made no difference if the "original" Phelan was awake or even alive for the clones to function. Theoretically, if Phelan died then his consciousness would simply be transferred into one of his clones, the same way any knowledge they accumulated independently of the original Phelan was absorbed when the clones died or were reabsorbed. So long as a single clone remained, Phelan was—in theory—practically immortal, and could simply go on making more clones, and his clones could make clones. A regular army of one. A comedic and rather energetic fellow, he delighted in driving his friends—and enemies—up the wall.
"About time you two showed up." A black-skinned girl said in annoyance. "We were about to start without you." She was Semira Bashar, a Tigrinyan girl from Eritrea, age sixteen. She could make portals that could be used to travel anywhere she wanted. They were also capable of acting like miniature black holes, sucking up whatever was near the aperture. She was a forceful girl, proud of herself and glad to be where she was. Semira often ended up being the one to play the peacemaker, trying to prevent her friends from killing each other. So far she'd been doing fairly well, as the low body count indicates.
"Sorry." Vladimir shrugged. "I got sidetracked." He looked around at the other members of their group, mentally taking tally of everyone there.
There was Jacques de Montesquieu, a seventeen-year old Frenchman and powerful telekinetic. Vlad once saw him toss the Hellion Beef head first into a pile of garbage. It was great. He was blued-eyed, with brown hair and a capable if not particularly talented student. Too impulsive for his own good, which was probably why he wasn't a Hellion. Contrary to most stereotypes, he wasn't really snobbish, though he genuinely loved his country which is a sentiment shared by few others.
Next to Jacques was Takashi Watanabe, a seventeen year-old Japanese student who could turn himself into some sort of liquid metal and reform his body anyway he wished. He generally preferred to turn his forearms into katanas and have at his enemies, samurai style. He was proud and rigid, the product of a very traditional upbringing that looked upon the code of bushido as the ultimate force in his life. Vlad found him vaguely frightening in his intensity.
Rodriguez Idiaquez was a small, dark, fifteen year-old Mexican capable of flinging lightning around from his fingers. Which was pretty ironic considering that he was actually a fairly shy person, his powerful—and loud—ability not withstanding.
The final member of their little team was a thin, swarthy girl named Amira al-Batani, an intelligent, solid, and determined eighteen-year old Palestinian girl from Gaza, in the Occupied Palestinian Territories. Or was, before she was deported after being outed as a mutant. She was rumored to be gay, but Vlad chalked those rumors up to Monet, after Amira punched her in the face for a stupid remark she made about the way Amira's glasses made her look. She was not what you would consider a traditional Muslim girl.
Amira was a contortionist. She could run faster, jump higher, and had near perfect control of her muscles, bending and twisting her body in ways that the most experienced acrobats and practitioners of Yoga could only dream of. In addition, her senses were heightened beyond the norm and her reflexes were superhuman. Put it together and you basically had someone who—if she did not want to be hit—could not be hit. A master of defense; dodging, twisting and weaving through sprays of bullets in midair and capable of jumps, spins, and leaps that even Kim Possible would be hard pressed to match.
They were the international students of the Massachusetts Academy and tended to cling together in this strange country. Of course there were many other "ethnics"—as they were called—on campus besides them. Slavs, Celts, Germans, East Asians, Turks, Arabs, Persians, Greeks, Scandinavians, Pacific Islanders, Bantus, Berbers, Africans, Indians, Hispanics, Jews…the Massachusetts Academy didn't discriminate. Not on race or ethnicity, anyway.
The "Omegas" were generally poor, most of them living on the streets or in refugee camps when they were recruited, which did nothing to improve their image among the Hellions. They all knew English, which they mostly used to complain about having to speak it to one another since none of them knew each other's home language. Even Phelan preferred Irish Gaelic and spoke English only as a concession.
That's the Omegas: Seven teenagers, mutants all of them but not all that abnormal for it. They had no codenames. They did not go on missions or get involved in fights with other mutants. They were essentially glad to stay at the Massachusetts Academy as one of the few places they could safely have classes and get an education. The fact that the Academy was a front for the Hellfire Club in their bid for world domination really didn't factor into their concerns. They were perfectly content that things stay that way.
Too bad Emma Frost had other plans for them.
00000000000000A/N: Now you've met the Omega Hellions! Characters are mine, any similarity to any real people or characters, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
Next up: When the Alphas meet the Omegas!