"The Scourge of Atlas."
Who the hell starts a conversation like that?
We had just exited the relative quiet of the cafeteria, the low hum of conversation fading behind us as Goodwitch led the way down one of Beacon's main arteries.
"Oh, that's quite the grand title for little old me, don't you think, Professor?" I responded, keeping my voice light, amiable.
I could feel her looking at me, that sharp, assessing gaze in my peripheral vision, though I pointedly didn't meet it.
Instead, I fixed my attention on the light spilling from the tall, arched windows that lined the corridor. It caught the dust motes dancing in the air, illuminating the polished stone floor and the walls.
Beacon truly was beautiful. Unlike Atlas Academy, which felt more like a fortress designed for function and intimidation, Beacon embraced aesthetics. The architecture here was flowing, almost organic, incorporating natural light and open spaces. It felt less like a military installation and more like... well, a school.
"So you don't think you deserve it?" Her voice was cool, precise, like chips of ice. My sense of hearing was far keener than even a four-eared Faunus, so I could discern every subtle inflexion. She seemed to dislike me even more intensely than she had six hours ago when we first met. Interesting.
There was also a faint undertone beneath the coolness, something I couldn't quite place.
As for whether I deserved that silly nickname…
"It's a hyperbole, Professor," I offered with a shrug, maintaining my focus on the soaring, vaulted ceiling.
"Oh?"
"Well, I think we can both agree that the only true 'scourges' of Atlas are the Grimm that constantly claw at its borders, its own inner corruption, and maybe the White Fang." I kept my tone conversational, as if discussing the weather, but I could feel the weight of her gaze intensify with each word.
Still, the ceiling was particularly beautiful this time of the year. The way the light played across the stonework... it really demanded my full attention.
She remained silent for a moment, the only sound the sharp clicks of her heels on the marble floor as we walked.
Usually, I would have ignored the veiled expectation for me to keep talking; after all, I was supposed to be a bit of a 'blockhead,' socially awkward and focused only on combat. But from what I'd observed so far, a slight change in that particular behaviour would be optimal here. People at Beacon seemed much more observant than the easily distracted elites and drones of Atlas.
"I mean, Scourge of Alsius could be appropriate if I squinted a bit," I continued, thinking aloud. "Given how many people were significantly annoyed with me by the end of my time at that preparatory school."
The heel clicking stopped. We had arrived in front of an elevator, its polished metal doors gleaming.
"That's quite the understatement, Mr. Geas." Her voice was straight up icy now, leaving no room for misinterpretation. The faint undertone, which I now knew to be disgust, became much more pronounced.
"I am sure they were more than merely annoyed, given the thirteen students and two instructors you nearly killed during your tenure."
Her tone was like a knife pressed against my throat. I could almost hear the unspoken words hanging in the air, a variation on familiar refrains. You piece of shit / How could you? / You insane bastard. But Goodwitch seemed like a creative woman; maybe it was something more eloquent. Perhaps a : If you try anything like that in this school, you will wish you were never born.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Geas," she said, her voice even harsher, cutting like a razor. "I can't seem to find the laughing matter."
Oh. Was I grinning? My my, how unfortunate... I tried so hard to be polite, but being threatened, even subtly, by someone who possessed the power and reputation to potentially follow through was simply too delightful.
Slowly, deliberately, I let my gaze finally meet hers.
Her light green eyes, usually so controlled, were marred by a flicker of genuine rage, quickly masked but not entirely hidden. Her face settled back into a stern expressionless mask, but her posture, the rigid set of her shoulders, the tension in her grip on her riding crop, all conveyed a simmering fury she was barely containing.
But I could see so much more than just suppressed anger.
Watching every bit of her in that single, held second felt like twelve different battles erupting simultaneously in the back of my mind. As I looked, I drank in more and more of her traits, observing, cataloguing, filling in the blanks. Her physical strength, her fighting style hinted at by her stance and weapon, her semblance – it was laid bare before me.
This rapid, instinctive analysis was intertwined with the simple act of seeing her physical form: the very light-blonde hair pulled back in that severe bun with a single, defiant curl escaping down the right side of her face, the bright green eyes magnified slightly by thin ovular glasses, the dangling teal earrings that matched the pendant on her collar.
She wore that crisp white long-sleeved, pleated blouse with its wide keyhole neckline, the gauntlet cuffs flaring dramatically at the wrist. Her lower body was covered by the black high-waisted pencil skirt with bronze buttons, the black fading into brown on her stockings. Her boots were black with bronze heels, and her cape, purple inside and black on the outside, hung elegantly from her shoulders. Her weapon of choice, was held firmly in her right hand, somehow radiating authority even when still.
As I saw her, I was also simultaneously dismantling her, breaking her down into components, assessing each piece for its potential in a fight.
But I couldn't see everything, not by a long, long shot. My analysis was good, yes, refined over countless sparring sessions, but I couldn't know anything for certain until the fight actually began.
It was all speculation, calculated guesses based on limited data. This was just scratching the surface of a very deep pond, barely even sending ripples across its surface.
But she felt it nonetheless.
I saw it in her eyes, the sudden flicker of alarm, the subtle widening as she realized what was happening. She knew the look in my eyes. She knew I was not just observing.
She knew I was calculating how to kill her.
In a single, sudden heartbeat, I couldn't move my body anymore. I was caught in a vise-like grip of pure force. Her telekinesis semblance. It squeezed around me, invisible and absolute. Should she wish for it, my head would burst like an overripe grape. Not instantly, perhaps, but quickly enough that it wouldn't matter. And all it took was a small, almost imperceptible wave of her Riding crop? How interesting! How… inappropriate.
She held me there for a moment, suspended, before shaking her head slowly, a sigh escaping her lips.
"I tried giving you the benefit of the doubt, Mr. Geas, I truly did. But you truly belong in a psych ward, don't you?"
("I'm sorry, Professor, my eyes have a mind of their own, you see, especially when I stand before someone stronger than myself…")
I couldn't speak with my mouth anymore, frozen in place as it was, so I spoke directly to her mind, my thoughts projected into her consciousness through a telepathy semblance.
She didn't react audibly, only arching a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow in response.
The elevator chimed, announcing its arrival, and the doors slid open with a soft hiss. She released me from the telekinetic hold abruptly, giving me a firm push that sent me stumbling inside the waiting cabin.
"I don't know nor understand why the Headmaster decided to accept you here," she stated, her voice returning to that sharp, icy tone, devoid of rage, but imbued with absolute finality.
"But know this, Drago Geas. You will behave. Whether you like it or not." It was an imperative, a command.
How… cute.
I straightened my tie, dusting off the front of my standard Beacon uniform jacket—black suit lined with gold, blue vest, white shirt, red tie.
It was quite uncomfortable.
"Of course, Professor," I said, my voice back to its pleasant, easy cadence. "I eagerly await your… instruction."
The elevator door closed, sealing me inside, and the cabin began its ascent automatically. A tinny elevator jingle started playing, and I found myself vibing to the tune.
Maybe I had acted a bit too insane? Nah. Her impression was already set, solidified by the reports from Atlas and confirmed by my own… enthusiasms. My actions in the past had been optimal at the time, but who knew they would end up biting me in the ass quite this relentlessly? Either way, if she expected and wanted a maniac, she'd have one.
Just show me some more of that telekinetic prowess, Professor. Let's see what else you can do.
For now though, I had an immortal wizard to meet.