Inbox (Caldera)

[coldsong]

"Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Attack while they are distracted.

Kindly leave a message."

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[badnewsandshitlist]

Percy opened the door with a fluid motion, one brow lifting as his gaze swept over Loki’s illusionary Asgardian ensemble. He gave a soft, appreciative chuckle, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Well,” he said with mock solemnity, stepping aside with a half-bow, “if it isn’t His Radiance in all his splendor. I didn’t realize I was hosting court tonight—should I have arranged for fanfare?”

He lingered there a moment, eyes catching on Loki’s with a little more warmth than amusement, before adding, “Though I must admit, you wear dramatic entrance rather well.”

As Loki stepped inside, Percy closed the door behind him with a quiet click, his voice softening, a touch conspiratorial. “Truth be told, I haven’t drawn much attention yet. But I’ve been venturing out more often, and I’d rather be overprepared than caught fumbling with just a gauntlet and a rusting sword.”

He moved toward the workshop with a half-glance back, tone turning just slightly flirtatious. “So I thought—who better to teach me a few charming distractions than the god of mischief himself? After all, if I’m going to be disarming people, I might as well do it with style.”

[coldsong]

"That's one of the greatest things about illusion magic," he says with a graceful bow. "Your wardrobe is limited only by your imagination. Although this is just what I wore to court functions in Asgard."

He winks at the compliment and follows Percy inside casually. "Well, by all means continue to flatter me. I'm already convinced to help you but I'm drawn to sweet talk like a bee to honey."

"Why don't you show me what you can do so far, hm? So I know where to start."

[badnewsandshitlist]

Percy led Loki into the workshop with the easy grace of a man used to controlling the space, though his fingers twitched once against the edge of his coat as they passed the drawer with the gun locked inside. Habit. A check. A reminder. Then—forward.

The room was comfortably cluttered. Blueprints on the walls. Gears and wires scattered like spilled thoughts. A teacup left cooling beside a half-finished trinket. Percy ignored it all as he turned, facing Loki with a hint of hesitation behind the usual theatrical tilt of his head.

“I’ve… never actually seen your work, you know,” he admitted, mouth quirking into something between wry amusement and self-reproach. “Plenty of stories. Vivid ones. You’re the sort of magician who rewrites the room just by walking into it. But I’m working with something more rudimentary. The party trick kind. Smoke and whispers—when it behaves.”

He flexed his gloved fingers, took a breath, and concentrated. A flicker of light shimmered briefly into existence—Percy’s own face, maybe, but blurred, unfinished. Like a memory recalled too quickly. The illusion hung in the air for half a heartbeat before unraveling into static and nothing.

“There,” he said flatly. “A half-formed ghost of myself. That’s about as far as it goes.”

His hands dropped to his sides, the motion deliberate, controlled. “It’s not the casting that fails. It’s the purpose. I’m a scientist, not a trickster. I can build illusions out of light and mirrors, but not magic. Not yet.”

He finally looked up, and though the smirk tried to return, there was something too raw under it—intent, more than pride.

“That’s why I asked you. Not for a lesson in spellcraft, but in deception. I want to turn this schoolroom illusion into something useful. Convincing. Dangerous, even.” His gaze lingered on Loki’s illusory finery. “I want to learn how to lie like it’s art.”

Then, with a quieter smile, almost fond:
“And maybe, if there’s time, how to make my coat flare just right when I walk into a room. For morale.”

He gestured toward the open floor of the workshop. “Shall we begin, my most extravagant tutor?”