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The dining hall goes quiet as he steps up. His golden hair buzzed short, golden skin pale and littered with scars, dirt, is that… blood?
With a scowl that stretches the contours of his scar, he stalks over to the food table and rattles the plates as he picks one up. It is deathly silent behind him; the whole world holding their breath. What will the boy do now? What will the Son of Jupiter unleash today? What will he become?
Jason Grace thanks the ghosts spooning mush onto his plate before falling onto a bench in the very corner of the hall. There is no one at his table. Those in the table surrounding unconsciously lean away.
So much space between him and them. So much air. With all the manipulation he’s capable of, he can never close that distance. Only expand, only make it bigger, more destructive. Who knew air would be his enemy?
Slowly the hall livens up again, as people get back to their conversations, their hushed whispers and daily scorn. He catches his reflection in the metal bowl of… soup?
The scar, from his hair line slashing
d
o
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n
through the middle of his forehead,
against the bridge of his nose,
straight into his red lips… the scar looks particularly harsh today. His lack of sleep and the quest he’d just rolled back from making him look like something out of a horror. Almost so horrifying it’s comical.
He flings his spoon into the bowl, splashing the liquid over that traitorous reflection.
He eats. Quickly. Efficiently.
He needs to brief Reyna about the latest attacks to their city borders. He needs to deal with Octavian.
He needs to not be stared. He needs to fucking leave.
He does.
To the sounds of whispers, harsh inhales. He has never done anything to hurt them.
But they know how he got this scar. They know he is capable. They know he survives. They know they will not.