5 days ago. 4 August 2025.
Things… were simpler back then. Before the murder.
Lyra pressed her forehead against the cool glass, mesmerized once again. Even after the third drive, Chromakopia's colors stole the breath right from her lungs. Buildings shimmered, streets pulsed, fountains erupted in rainbows; it was the visual equivalent of someone hitting all the buttons for "extra bright" and turning the volume dial to eleven.
Beside her, Weaver gripped the steering wheel, a scowl etching lines deeper across his forehead. His worn denim jacket, seemingly permanently stained by spilled coffee or worse, sagged slightly at the shoulders, mirroring his lackluster mood. The faint, lingering scent of cheap whiskey followed him like a shadow. Even the vibrant metropolis couldn't quite mask that particular aroma.
A sigh escaped Lyra's lips. Four more years, she thought wistfully, letting her gaze linger on a hovercar zipping past, shimmering like a teal dragonfly. The excitement of a fresh start tangled with a wave of bittersweet nerves. Four more years, five hundred miles apart. She glanced across at Weaver again. His attention remained fixed stubbornly on the road, his gaze unwavering, impenetrable.
Lyra tapped lightly on her phone screen. Maybe I’ll send Dad a picture? she pondered. He wouldn't admit it, but deep down, she imagined him secretly relishing these drives, even pretending to begrudge them. They weren't exactly known as the cuddly couple.
She chuckled internally.
Maybe even send him some ramen memes afterwards.
Lyra took a deep breath, letting her gaze sweep once again over the kaleidoscopic city, feeling a small spark of amusement.
He just needs a taste of Chroma-life.
Lyra chuckled internally again, the image of her dad trying to navigate holographic ramen menus surfacing in her mind. He'd probably hack the system just to see if it would work with a chip trick. Tech wizard dad, magic persona turned napping couch husband.
She let out a soft sigh, the bubble of amusement fading. The reality of the situation, the icy knot of her mother's absence, squeezed her chest. It had been three years since the news broke, three years since the world outside their tiny hometown knew her father wasn’t just "Weaver the Amazing," but a Noesis, a guy whose brain could practically bend reality.
He'd been a magician, a celebrity, before. A hundred billboards, a dozen sold-out shows per month. Now, he just... existed. Existing meant sleeping in, complaining about the price of gas, and trying - and failing - to make jokes out of nervous energy.
Her mom killing herself because she hated his lies, learned his secret because TMZ was, cheaply, effective, it was all a punchline in the universe's terrible, terrible sense of humor.
He'd have bribed the cops back then, she thought, picturing her dad, all slick charm and practiced smiles, making things disappear, like him, like their problems.
He hadn't even tried. Not when the headlines screamed "Orthodoxium Found in Famous Magicians Wife's Body!!"
The American magic shield was gone, she guessed, her heart heavy.
The whiff of whiskey clinging to her father wasn't just a smell, it was a silent testament to something broken. And Lyra knew, with a sinking certainty, that this was more than just a bad trip across the island. He'd gone off track, derailed, sometime between the crowds and the spotlight, between laughter and tears.
Lyra glanced at her dad again, saw the familiar slump of his shoulders, his eyes glazed over with boredom. She knew that glimpse into her father wasn't the whole story, but it was all she had. And at that moment, the color of Chromakopia, a city designed to capture your senses and make everything sparkle, seemed a bit dull. It wasn't the city's fault; it was hers. She was used to seeing her dad as a magician, as a force of spectacle. Now, all she saw was a man perched on the edge of a stage, his act long over. And she didn’t know how to bring him back.
Lyra gasped, momentarily forgetting her dad's sour mood.
Towering before them, framed by vibrant, swirling foliage, stood the gates of the University of New Olympus. Two colossal pillars, sculpted from gleaming white marble, soared towards the sky, each adorned with intricate carvings depicting scenes of mythical creatures and fantastical landscapes.
Atop each pillar, perched like watchful guardians, stood statues of winged griffins, their eyes seemingly glinting with an inner fire.
"Wow," Lyra breathed, leaning forward, captivated.
Weaver, however, seemed unimpressed.
"Don't get too excited, kid. Four years, remember?" he muttered, pulling up to a parking spot.
Before Lyra could reply, a robotic arm extended from a nearby machine, clamping a bright orange ticket onto their windshield.
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Lyra stared, incredulous.
"A university this rich has parking tickets?!" she exclaimed, pointing at the offending slip.
Weaver, without looking, grumbled, "Maybe the parking tickets are why the university is rich…"
Lyra burst out laughing.
"Really, Dad?"
Weaver ignored her, muttering something about "entitled kids" and "cost of living" as he started driving towards the university entrance.
Lyra shook her head, grinning.
Maybe college wouldn't be so bad after all, she thought, watching the griffins' statues loom larger.
She had a feeling this was just the beginning of a wild ride.
The moment they entered the University of New Olympus, Lyra had to stifle a laugh. It was like someone had taken a bunch of streets, flipped a coin for their direction, and then just… glued them together. Buildings of every conceivable shape and size seemed to be crammed onto every inch of space, defying all logic and making navigation look like a game of urban Jenga.
"Where… where the fuck should we go…" Weaver muttered, his brow furrowing as they came to a screeching halt in front of a six-way roundabout.
In the center, a massive statue of the university's logo – a stylized circle of interwoven lightning bolts – stood like a bewildered king surveying his chaotic domain.
"Try find a sign for uh…" Lyra mumbled, frantically pulling out her phone. Her eyes scanned the screen, her brow furrowing as she read aloud, "b-bal- balruj- balrujg-" Her voice trailed off into a confused, "How do you pronounce this?!"
Weaver, completely lost in the navigating-a-maze-of-future-graduates situation, cranked the steering wheel further. "What?!"
"Bal'runnng - balru-" Lyra wailed, her voice tinged with both frustration and amusement.
"Spell it! I can't see your phone I'm fucking driving!"
"Ah shit, B… A… apostrophe… I…"
"Apostrophe…?"
"Dad, you just told me to spell it! This is how it's spelled! You can't… never mind!" Lyra grumbled, scrolling down, realizing the house laws for "fragile auras" with their respective fines were a bit too much for even her to comprehend right now.
"Oh my god, Lyra-" Weaver started, his voice dripping with exasperation. He looked at Lyra's phone for a fleeting moment before throwing his hands up in defeat, looking back at the road. "Just say Balrung! Balrung Hall!"
"Okay…" Lyra mumbled, trying to regain lost composure.
His dismissive tone, however, felt like an icy splash on already-fractured ice. You wouldn't catch him saying that to his superstar-entrepreneur friends at the country club, would you, she thought to herself, her face hardening slightly.
Keeper of surprised expressions her new dad was now. Weaver, seemingly oblivious to her internal turmoil, spotted a street sign and, with a grunt of satisfaction, took a sharp right. "Balrung Hall."
As Lyra slipped her phone away, her thoughts betrayed her. “Well, at least it’s not Barfaloirug Hall."
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Lyra stepped out of the 2009 Nissan Maxima, its faded yellow paint practically screaming, "I'm-a-dad-car-dealership-reject." Before her loomed Ba'l'Rûŋg Hall, a monstrous structure that looked like the White House after a sugar rush, all pristine white marble and enough columns to make ancient Greece jealous.
"Alright, Lyra, grab your stuff. These fucking parents ain't gonna wait long." Weaver grumbled, still slumped behind the wheel, eyes fixed on the bumper ahead. Lyra's mouth twitched. Even the car seemed embarrassed to be associated with him.
Lyra glanced back. A sea of sleek hovercars zipped around, dropping off equally pristine teenagers, looking like a scene straight out of a futuristic mall. Even the parents looked sharper, hugging goodbye with an effortless grace Lyra envied. Her dad, meanwhile, looked like he'd rather be wrestling a particularly stubborn lawnmower.
"Oh, yeah, right," Lyra muttered, snapping back to reality.
With a flick of her wrist, Lyra levitated her luggage—two backpacks, a choir book, and enough textbooks to rival a mini-library—into her arms.
She almost blurted out, "Dad, maybe we could upgrade to something less… 2009?" Then she remembered Weaver's unwavering belief that a car's worth was directly proportional to its ability to carry groceries and endure potholes.
"Listen, Lyra, don't you dare..." Weaver started, launching into a lecture that seemed to span everything from premarital sex to the dangers of artisanal kombucha.
Lyra rolled her eyes internally. Her dad, a champion of abstinence, who often ended his nights reminiscing about tequila sunrise cocktails with the ghosts of Elvis Presley.
"Yeah, Dad…" Lyra sighed, knowing that this conversation wouldn't actually convince Weaver of anything.
"And DEFINITELY don't vape!" Weaver added, eyes wide with parental concern.
"I know, Dad. Chill out."
"Don't…don't…don't…you…you…EVER…touch…weed…fent…coke…heroin…" Weaver stammered, a picture of frantic disapproval.
"Dad, I know! Seriously, calm down!"
"Alright, alright! Almost forgot! Join the Christian club, if they got one…"
"They do! Of course!"
Weaver's brow furrowed. "Ah…okay…what's that?" He pointed at Lyra's choir book.
"Oh, they're doing a choir practice for orientation. I dunno why, though…"
"Hm. Weird fucking tradition," Weaver mumbled.
Awkward silence descended, heavy as a physics textbook.
"Well, this is it," Weaver finally broke it, starting the engine.
"Yeah…this is it," Lyra echoed, desperately searching for the perfect goodbye.
"I'm going home. See you," Weaver mumbled, peeling out before Lyra could even finish her sentence.
Lyra sighed, watching the yellow Maxima crawl along in traffic, Weaver staring straight ahead, desperately yearning for his couch and a cold beer.
Lyra blinked. Okay, this was officially crossing the line. Weaver might be a master of avoiding emotional intimacy, but not even a hug?
"BYE, DAD!" Lyra practically shrieked, waving with all the enthusiasm of a cheerleader leading a parade for lost socks.
Weaver, however, remained unmoved. His attention was locked laser-focused on the inchworm-like crawl of the car ahead, the epitome of passive-aggressive impatience. Lyra could practically hear the internal monologue: "Come on, chrome chariot, get outta my way! This vintage chariot deserves respect, dammit!"
Weaver offered a lazy wave with his left hand, as disinterested as a zombie waving hello from beyond the grave. It wasn't exactly a fond farewell, more like, "I acknowledge your existence, tiny human, but I'm off to more stimulating pursuits like avoiding potholes."
Lyra’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t exactly a proud father-daughter moment.
"He doesn't even look back at me!" Lyra grumbled internally, rolling her eyes harder than a drunk raccoon trying to parallel park.
She looked back at the throngs of new students, all buzzing with excitement, parents snapping photos, exchanging tearful goodbyes. One kid was practically posing for selfies, grinning wider than a Cheshire cat.
Lyra felt a pang of loneliness, wishing for that kind of connection, that sense of belonging. Maybe, she thought, this weird, gravity-defying, choir-singing, future-of-human-evolution-but-still-kind-of-a-mess-sometimes place wouldn't be so bad after all.
Maybe.