And from today on, I am Tempestas (Revised)

Sarah (POV)

Next in line for a codename was Armando Muñoz, officially christened "Darwin." With casual confidence, he stepped forward, radiating the energy of someone who knew exactly how incredible their abilities were. His codename wasn't just clever—it was branding perfection. Adaptation wasn't just his power; it defined him. Gills in water? Check. Diamond-hard skin when danger loomed? Easy. It was as if nature had handed him a cheat code.

I made a mental note: if this guy ever pushed his limits, the world might need therapy. I caught myself wondering whether he even had a ceiling before shoving the thought aside. There was enough existential dread in my life without adding Darwin's potential supernova into the mix. Shaw's death flashed in my mind—a big, red, blinking sign reminding me of what couldn't happen.

Next up was Sean Cassidy, who couldn't stop grinning, beaming like a kid about to debut at a school talent show. His codename? Banshee. Fitting, given his sonic scream powers. Still, I couldn't help musing that "Batboy" might've been sharper, considering his echolocation ability. Not that I'd ever say it to his face; his confidence didn't need my editorial input.

Eager to impress, Sean zeroed in on an innocent coffee cup perched on the table. "Watch this!" he declared, inhaling deeply. What followed was an impressive burst of sonic energy, directed with all the precision of a toddler playing darts blindfolded. The cup remained stoically unscathed, but the window behind it didn't fare so well. A deafening crack echoed through the room as the glass splintered into a spectacular spiderweb pattern.

Dead silence. For a moment, even the dust particles seemed to pause mid-air.

Then Alex Summers, reigning king of bad timing, broke the quiet with a snort. "Guess we know who's not doing the dishes."

I buried my face in my hands. "Yep, definitely going to hear about this for the next three hours." I turned to Raven, hoping she might care enough to step in and mitigate the damage.

She just shrugged. "It's a window. Big deal."

I raised an eyebrow. "You're saying that now, but wait until Charles starts talking about responsibility and team cohesion. You'll be singing a different tune."

Angel Salvadore stepped up next, her wings shimmering like spun glass as she sauntered forward. Confidence practically radiated from her every move. A few fireballs crackled to life in her palm, which she juggled with the casual ease of someone tossing birthday candles. With a buzz of her translucent wings, she hovered above the ground, resembling a creature from an avant-garde horror fairy tale.

"Angel," she announced. Her codename might have been a little on the nose, but simplicity had its charm.

"Fire-spitting dragonfly," I muttered under my breath. "Adding that one to the list of things I'm definitely not stealing."

Then came Hank McCoy, whose tentative smile practically begged everyone not to stare at his feet. Those oversized appendages weren't doing his self-esteem any favors, but Alex couldn't resist.

"Bigfoot," Alex quipped, earning immediate laughter from the group.

Hank's face fell faster than a stack of Jenga blocks in a hurricane. Poor guy. He clearly wasn't one of those "laugh it off" types. Thankfully, Raven stepped in with some kind words, her tone soft enough to patch up the wound. Crisis averted—for now.

Finally, it was Alex's turn. His codename remained undecided, mostly because he was too stubborn to pick one. His powers—hurling volatile energy discs capable of obliterating just about anything—weren't exactly ideal for indoor demonstrations. But peer pressure is a relentless beast.

"Fine," he grumbled, stalking toward the door. "Let's go outside before you all start whining."

We followed him to the yard, where a statue that had clearly seen better days stood as his unwitting victim. Alex squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and unleashed a blazing disc of energy. It cleaved through the statue with ease, sending the top half crashing to the ground in a cloud of debris.

"Mission accomplished," Alex said smugly, dusting his hands as though he'd just cleaned the kitchen.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Mission property damage accomplished. Charles is going to have a stroke when he sees this."

The last holdout was me. I'd toyed with a few names—Aurora had a poetic flair, Dawn was charming in its simplicity—but neither truly fit. They were too soft, too serene. And let's be real, I wasn't exactly sunshine and butterflies. I needed something with weight, with edge. Something that commanded attention.

"Tempestas," I said finally, the word rolling off my tongue with a sense of finality. The Roman goddess of storms—it carried gravitas. It wasn't just a name; it was a statement.

Raising my hand toward the sky, I willed the clouds above to darken. Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and menacing, like a predator's warning growl. A flash of lightning forked through the sky, drawn irresistibly to my outstretched palm. The impact was instantaneous and electric, literally. Energy coursed through my hand, coalescing into a crackling orb of lightning that expanded to the size of a beach ball. Its electric-blue light bathed the yard in an otherworldly glow, reflecting in the wide eyes of everyone around me.

"Let's just say thunderstorms aren't ideal for indoor settings," I quipped, letting the orb pulse a moment longer before dissipating it with a casual snap of my fingers. The energy crackled faintly as it vanished, leaving the air charged with static and the sharp scent of ozone.

For a beat, no one said anything. Then the murmurs started—low, impressed whispers rippling through the group.

"Damn," Alex muttered, his eyes lingering on the spot where the lightning orb had been.

"I think it suits you," Raven said, her voice tinged with genuine admiration.

No one disagreed. Tempestas it was.

The mood, however, remained light, even as my thoughts turned heavy. I could practically hear the next few pages of the script flipping in my head: Charles's disappointment, Erik's inevitable solo mission, the CIA's ambush under Shaw's orders, and Darwin's death.

I closed my eyes, replaying what I knew as though running through a checklist. Darwin's death—I had already decided that wasn't going to happen on my watch.

For now, I'd stick to the script, nudging events where I could. But if Darwin's life was ever at risk, all bets were off. Shaw wouldn't know what hit him.

The shift in the common room's mood was noticeable—part house party, part low-budget mutant Olympics. What started as a casual gathering had morphed into a chaotic showcase of powers, snacks, and questionable judgment. Raven, somehow the queen of impromptu celebrations, had conjured a feast worthy of a Costco sponsorship: chips, cookies, and a suspiciously large stash of wine.

Even I, perpetually inclined to brood in the corner as if auditioning for Angsty Paranormal Monthly, felt myself drawn into the energy. There was an infectious camaraderie that even my inner cynic struggled to resist. Applause and laughter echoed through the room as mutant powers became the night's entertainment.

Havok, ever the show-off, lit up the room with his plasma blasts. One particularly overzealous shot burned a perfect replica of the Mona Lisa into the wall. "Modern art," he declared proudly, though Charles's future blood pressure likely wouldn't agree.

Darwin, composed as ever, rolled his eyes as the next blast veered too close, seamlessly turning his skin into diamonds. "Try harder," he deadpanned, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

I wasn't spared from the festivities either. Somehow, I got roped into demonstrating my shadow tendrils. I extended my hand, palm facing upward, making a rising motion just for the kicks, and then dark, twisting ribbons of shadow emerged, writhing as if summoned from a gothic nightmare. The reactions were split between awe and discomfort.

"Creepy but cool," Alex offered with a thumbs-up.

"I'll take it," I said, letting the tendrils dissipate.

The night wore on, and while the mutants perfected their powers, they were also perfecting new ways to destroy the common room. The wine had taken a sacrificial dive onto the carpet, leaving crimson splatters that would give any CSI team nightmares. The walls bore scorch marks, courtesy of an overly enthusiastic laser light show. And the poor lawn statue outside? It now resembled a headless Greek tragedy, its upper half lying somewhere in the bushes.

Despite the mounting wreckage, I found myself, dare I say it? Actually having fun. It was disarming this reckless joy. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd been to a party. Well, there was that one in the 1940s, but that felt like a different life. And then there was that Cú Chulainn's wedding in, oh, 2000 years ago? But that was... complicated.

"I should pitch this party idea to Kara," I muttered to myself, filing it away for future consideration.

The revelry reached its zenith, with Banshee and Havok attempting a synchronized display of soundwaves and plasmablasts. It went about as well as you'd expect—half the room ducking for cover while Darwin sighed and casually turned his body into granite. The crowning moment was a stray plasma disc that obliterated a bottle of wine mid-air, showering everyone in red streaks.

The celebration froze as a roar cut through the air—a sound that wasn't a mutant power but might as well have been. And there they were, framed perfectly by the shattered window: the unholy trinity of "you're all grounded."

Agent Moira MacTaggart stood at the forefront, her expression radiating the kind of exasperation that could only come from cleaning up someone else's mess. Behind her was Erik, the King of Sass himself, looking more amused than angry. And then there was Charles, the main event.

If looks could kill, Charles's expression would have leveled the building. This was no ordinary disappointment—this was the wrath of the dad who vouched for you to the principal only to find out you skipped school to start a food fight. His jaw was so tight I half-expected to hear it crack.

Raven stiffened beside me, whispering, "Uh-oh. That's not the 'disappointed professor' face."

"What is it then?" I asked, my curiosity outweighing my sense of self-preservation.

"It's the 'I'm questioning every decision that brought me here' face," she replied, grimacing.

Mutant survival instincts kicked in across the room. Havok, whose glowing chest made him about as subtle as a firework, attempted to slink into the shadows. Darwin helpfully muttered, "Dude, you glow. There's no hiding." 

"I hate you," Alex hissed through gritted teeth, earning a shrug from Darwin.

When Charles finally spoke, his tone was calm. Too calm. It was the kind of calm that made Erik, of all people, take an involuntary step back.

"May I remind all of you," he began, each word like a scalpel, "that I just staked my credibility on this team's professionalism?"

The collective wince was almost audible. Even I, someone who generally lived by the mantra do no emotional harm to yourself, felt a pang of guilt. My gaze flicked around the room—at the wall, the ceiling, the mutants, all of whom were suddenly very interested in their shoes.

Just as Charles seemed ready to launch into the kind of lecture that could strip paint off walls, Moira raised a hand. "Let them have their fun," she said, though her tone implied "fun" was a strong overstatement for whatever this was. Erik chuckled under his breath, clearly enjoying the unraveling spectacle.

Erik smirked, clearly enjoying the spectacle. "This is what happens when you put a bunch of young mutants in one room," he said, his voice practically dripping with I told you so.

Charles shot him a withering look but said nothing, his fury reserved for his wayward team. 

After a few more exchanges involving withering glares and stern reminders, the trio turned and left, though Charles's disappointment lingered like a storm cloud over the room. It was a noticeable thing, heavy enough to make the wine taste just a little less celebratory.

Still, there was a sliver of humor in the aftermath.

"Who knew a mutant house party could cause an existential crisis?" Raven muttered, earning a weak chuckle from the group.

...

Sitting beside Raven, I couldn't help but notice the tension radiating off my teammate. Her usually confident demeanor had taken a nosedive—her posture stiff, her eyes darting as though she expected Professor X to telepathically scold her from halfway across the globe.

Ever the reluctant empath (or maybe just bored enough to care), I rested a hand on Raven's shoulder. "Apologize later," I said, my voice low but steady. "They were just excited—finally seeing others like them. No harm intended, right?"

Raven turned to me, the faintest flicker of gratitude crossing her face. "Thanks," she murmured, though the worry didn't entirely leave her. She glanced at the others, most of whom were still pretending to examine their shoes or suddenly finding the ceiling fascinating. "They're just… rookies. They don't know better."

I nodded. I got it. The mutants were giddy with their newfound sense of belonging, high on adrenaline and mutant-powered dopamine. A little chaos was bound to happen. Honestly, I respected the audacity. But still, the timing? Less than ideal.

And here was the kicker: Charles and Erik were already en route to the Soviet Union, probably arguing in the jet over ideological differences or whose turn it was to pick the in-flight music. By the time Professor X's veins de-popped enough for him to "understand," he'd be thousands of miles away, leaving the freshly minted X-Men to marinate in the fallout.

I leaned closer, my tone soft but sly. "Look, at least the codenames were a win. They'll cool off. Eventually. Right?"

Raven perked up at that, clearly glad for the distraction. "You're not wrong. I mean, Professor X? That's gonna stick. And Magneto? Iconic. You're welcome, Charles and Erik."

"I didn't realize you were the branding genius behind those," I quipped, my smirk widening now. "But I've gotta ask: Why the 'X'? What's the story there?"

Raven sat up straighter, grateful for the shift in conversation. "It's simple. You know Charles' last name?"

I squinted, playing dumb with an air of theatrical confusion. "Uh... Xavier? Wait. Xavier starts with an X?"

"Exactly!" Raven grinned, finally easing out of her funk. "Professor Xavier. Professor X. It's elegant, really."

I nodded, my face deadpan, but my eyes glinting with amusement. "And here I thought it stood for something deep. Like eXceptional, or eXtreme. Maybe eXistential crisis."

"You're hilarious," Raven deadpanned, though the corners of her mouth twitched.

"I try." I leaned back, satisfied with my small victory. It was the kind of trivia I wouldn't have cared about back in my old world, content to watch the movies without Googling a thing. But being in the thick of it gave me an unexpected appreciation for the behind-the-scenes stuff. And yeah, it made sense—Professor X was just shorthand for Xavier. Efficient, a little classy, very Charles.

The room had shifted into damage control mode. CIA agents swarmed the common area like irritated bees, patching up mutant-sized holes in the drywall and scrubbing suspicious scorch marks off the floor. The unfortunate statue, however, remained conspicuously absent—presumably reduced to debris or teleported to some tragic statue afterlife.

Meanwhile, Alex and Darwin, the kings of Let's Not Deal With Our Emotions, had commandeered the couch, engrossed in a video game. Judging by Alex's constant swearing and Darwin's calm, unbothered smirk, things were not going well for Havok. The rest of the crew lingered around the snack table, picking half-heartedly at chips and cookies while an awkward silence blanketed the room. The earlier buzz of celebration had long since fizzled out.

Raven and I, however, seemed blissfully unaffected. Our conversation carried on in hushed tones, the pair of us trading sarcastic quips like a tennis match while the rest of the team stewed in their collective guilt.

"You know," I said, keeping my voice low, "when Charles and Erik get back, they're either gonna lecture us for hours or give us some boot camp-style punishment. Thoughts?"

Raven's lips twitched into a conspiratorial grin. "My money's on the lecture. Erik's dramatic, but Charles? He's relentless. Probably break out some metaphor about responsibility and trust."

I mock-shuddered. "Ugh, trust metaphors. The horror."

"Hey, at least he's consistent," Raven shot back, her grin widening.

I chuckled, realizing that even in this strange, chaotic version of reality, some things—like dry humor and deflective banter—were universal constants. For now, that would have to be enough.