Realistic or Modern Project Atlas

[Erica]

A light blanket of snow covered New York. Heaping piles of the dirty, sandy stuff lined the street: they had for months and would for some time yet, but the fresh coat painted the city clean anew. It was an alluring illusion. Within the heart of the city, a thousand deals were being made, from brokers on Wall Street trading in the economy down to the felafel cart vendors selling their wares on the corner. Despite the vast knowledge available to them, most of the general public went about their daily lives blissfully ignorant.


All of it depended on a larger delusion of safety and security. The Saturn Accord had been signed five years ago, limiting the use of metahumans in military operations and banning any programs designed for human enhancement. While pundits debated its efficacy - especially with a few major nations like China refusing to sign the accord - few events had made it international headlines since the Accord. A spectacular fire here, a daring robbery there, but nothing came close to the war with a telepath leading the troops in 1992. Morena’s trial thrust the issue into the spotlight, but it also raised the bar on what would be considered a truly newsworthy metahuman event.


No peace comes without effort and sacrifice. Behind the scenes, the U.N. had established a secret program enlisting metahumans to help keep counter their own kind. After five years, Project Atlas still remained a secret to the public. With limited personnel they had been successful in thwarting countless potential threats and arresting dozens of dangerous metas. Yet the world continued to evolve: their model of pairing one or two metahumans with a larger team would not be sufficient forever. Debate raged for months until Marshall Roberto F. Turchi had issued the command: they would form meta-dominant teams.


Thus, on a Tuesday in February, selected contractors would be pulled the U.N. building in New York. These would form into teams forming a new model and a new approach. The Project had been founded on the principle that metahumans were not inherently untrustworthy; it was time to put that principle to the test.

 

[Erica]

Tuesday, February 10, 2015 08:11

​

Far beneath the U.N. building, Corporal Chelsea Tyler took one last assessment of Conference Room C. The room was dominated by a large white board on the far wall with a projector screen stored neatly above it. Someone had written a time and a date - 11 Oct 2014, 16:30 - on the bottom corner of the board in blue dry erase marker, and a handful of markers dotted the tray at the bottom of the board. In the right corner, a smartboard stood, its slick, clear electronic surface mocking the obsolescence of the other equipment in the room. In the center of the room, track lighting shone off of the polished surface of an oval wooden table and eight accompanying black leather chairs. To the right sat a series of cabinets and a small counter that had a coffeemaker set upon it along with cups and the various trappings of the American morning ritual. The coffeemaker was percolating quietly; soon the room would be filled with the best scent cheap coffee grinds could offer. Corporal Tyler set a white cardboard box, along with a small stack of plates and napkins, on the counter beside the coffee maker. The box contained starchy breakfast pastries, ranging from bagels to donuts. It represented a pitiful launch for the new team, but it was what she could manage. Project Atlas was worse than a government-run program; it was a multi-government-run program, and that meant no end to the paperwork and red tape. Even for acquiring bagels and scones. So she had bought the breakfast herself and dealt with the hassle of getting them inspected by security.


It would have to do.


She took a deep breath, straightened her navy skirt suit, and squared her shoulders before heading for Drexler’s office. As she navigated the maze-like hallways with ease, her sensible heels sounded a steady tattoo against the tile floors. The hallways had been made to feel less like a bunker through drywall and plaster, but the walls still boasted a cement and cinderblock skeleton.


Finally, she stopped before Colonel Drexler’s office and offered a perfunctory nod and smile to the man who waited outside. Drexler’s 8am was running over. Reaching up, she placed a single finger against the bridge of her glasses and pushed them back into place. She nodded again to Lieutenant Adams, a solidly built man in his mid-thirties with a barrel chest and fervent belief in the timeless fashion of a military buzz cut. His rounded jaw conspired with his thick, short neck to make him look like he had suffered a nasty accident under the weights at the gym. Chelsea knew this to be untrue, but given how hard Lieutenant Adams worked to maintain his physical conditioning, it wasn’t that far fetched. Perhaps because of the neck issue, he rarely wore a uniform, and today was no exception; he wore black pants, a white t-shirt, and a black jacket with the Atlas logo on the sleeve. Probably best, given his duties today.


Technically, she should have saluted him, but she and Joshua knew each other well enough that they subsisted on informal interaction. Most people on the base had to work with Corporal Tyler at some point, and almost everyone strove to remain on good terms with the woman, because she was the kinder, gentler gateway to the Colonel and as his assistant, she knew almost everything going on at the base.


With a final unnecessary check that none of her blond hair had escaped its bun, Chelsea knocked twice on the door before opening it.


Drexler’s deep voice carried into the hall. “… we’re clear. If I had my way, you’d be in prison. But someone apparently thinks you’re redeemable.” Inside, the Colonel looked as if someone had swapped his live ammunition for blanks. “This is your chance to be useful. Don’t waste it.”


In front of Colonel Harold T. Drexler’s impeccably organized desk sat a man with brown hair and stubs for fingers. The wrinkles around his eyes and the touch of grey in his hair placed him in his thirties, but his ill-fitting suit and too-short tie aged him further. His attempts not to stare at the large, star-shaped scar on Drexler’s left cheek were meeting with limited success. Clenching one hand into a fist, he answered in an irritated New Jersey accent, “I got it.” Then, with the sudden certainty of a child who knows his answer will displease, he cleared his throat and added, “Sir.”


“Let’s hope for your sake you do,” Drexler responded, focused solely on his target. Silence stretched for a long moment as the man before his desk looked anywhere but into the Colonel’s eyes. When he finally dared to glance up, Drexler said, “Dismissed.”


The man stood and headed for the door, brushing past Lieutenant Adams with a muttered “Sorry” before heading down the hall, Corporal Tyler escorting him. Drexler waived Lieutenant Adams into his office without missing a beat.


Without a doubt, Colonel Harold T. Drexler lived to serve his country. His office testified to his obsession with order and patriotism. This field office was in the United States, so many of the officers - including Adams - were American military. No one ever stated this explicitly, but it was a logical side effect of the way the Project had been formed. He waited for Adams to close the door then nodded with a muttered “At ease.” He knew the man’s work and his reputation. He was useful. Dependable. And he knew how to clean up a mess. A good fit.


Colonel Drexler skipped the casual small talk; neither man needed it. “Meeting’s set up for ten thirty in Conference Room C. Team members have all been called in; none have been notified of the recent change in direction.” He handed the man a tablet. “No time for hand-holding and team building.”


Adams looked over the file, swiping his finger along the smooth surface, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the contents. “Never liked the whole trust fall BS anyway, Sir,” he said absently as he continued reading. When he looked back up, he closed the lid on the tablet. “Timeframe?”


“You can imagine the potential number of interested parties,” Drexler said, motioning to the tablet.


A wry smile flitted across Lieutenant Adam’s lips before he nodded and tucked the tablet under his arm. Perhaps he had an opinion on that, but he wasn’t going to share it aloud. “Yes, Sir. Anything else, Sir?”


Drexler smiled then, both eyebrows lifted as he reclaimed his seat and turned his attention to the next matter awaiting him. It was a form of dismissal. “Don’t fuck it up.”


With a salute and a smile, Adams stepped back out into the hall, nodding to Corporal Tyler as he passed her desk at a steady clip.

 

[Syrenrei]

"Sleeping Beauty"

When Jenna first joined Project Atlas a couple years ago, her superiors at the Occupational Safety and Health Administration were put on notice (discreetly) that she would be requested elsewhere at certain times during her employment. None of them knew what she did exactly and they rather preferred it that way; any curiosity they had about these excused absences was quashed by the knowledge that it was confidential and beyond their pay grade. "Don't ask, don't tell" was the prevailing attitude among management as they ignored and turned away questions about Jenna's disappearances. As her metahuman status was a poorly kept secret, one of her former colleagues had told the other staff that he believed Jenna was partaking in medical trials and experiments for the betterment of the country. No one was actually brave enough the young woman herself. As government employees they had a healthy dose of fear and respect for those in the upper echelons; they did not want to be reprimanded for going 'beyond the scope of their employment and rank.' More than bureaucracy, many were also not mentally prepared for what sort of horrible stories Jenna might tell given an audience. She could at times disclose too much.


Needless to say, when Project Atlas called her to let her know that she would be required to report in at 10:30 AM, she had no issues alerting work she would be out of the office. She spent 10 minutes talking to another investigator, Timothy Brinson, about an inspection he would have to cover for her. While she had at least half an hour of concerns to convey to him so that he could be adequately prepared, he cut her off prematurely and said he had everything he needed to know. Tim was polite and professional but clearly unhappy. Jenna resolved to bring him some sweets the next time she saw him at work to lift his spirits.


Jenna had arrived over half an hour early to assure she could get through security, though experience should have told her this was unnecessary. There had not once been an issue with her keys, keycard, or passcode. She had (of course) never misplaced a badge or failed a biometric scan- except that once when her eye was heavily damaged and caused a little glitch. It was only her desire to be prepared, safe, and respectful of security that made her so absurdly early. Though the security personnel was not paid to chit chat with Jenna, she tried to warmly greet them every time she came to the facility and a couple would smile and briefly greet her in return. Multiple times she had offered herself to be submitted to extra security measures in the name of safety or excessively praised their attention to detail. By and large, Project Atlas security staff found her be a slightly annoying, yet harmless, eccentric.


It was only 10 AM when she found herself outside the appropriate conference room with nothing to do with herself. After pacing a little bit, peeking around corners for someone with which to hold a conversation, and making a quick trip to the restroom (so she wouldn't need to go during an official meeting), she entered the room. Oh! Coffee! And some pastries! Jenna darted over the counter and started to survey her choices with the enthusiasm of a poor college student scoring freebies.

 

[Widget]

The rich, heavy scent of brewing coffee engulfed the small confines of the quaint café – an ambience deemed highly attractive by those accustomed to the cold sting of New York’s wintry air. Victor Kant rested his elbows upon the ornate mahogany surface of the café’s counter, barely withholding a sigh of impatience as his server fumbled around anxiously for the milk that sat mere inches away from him. Pursing his lips, Victor spared a sidelong glance at the face of his watch, frowning slightly as he acknowledged the answer. 9:51. He may have to manage without caffeine today if the man behind the counter continued to take his sweet time. Victor shuddered dimly at unpleasant thought. Unfortunately for him, Project Atlas was not fond of tardiness, even on behalf of matters such as acquiring a decent cup of coffee.


The high pitched shriek of childish laughter broke through the somber silence of the café, drawing Victor’s attention away from the potential inconvenience. A pair of young, home-schooled boys dashed through the rapidly swinging door, disregarding the mother’s well-intentioned wishes to ‘shut up’ and read their books. Clutched tightly in the children’s hands were two small figurines, which, Victor recognized after a moment of confusion, were Hasbro’s miniature replications of the Guardians. One did not seem to go a day without seeing at least a dozen of the dolls (he refused to call them action figures); the company must be bathing in currency by now… Simply for creating a toy.


"Sonic blast!" The tiny, ruddy-complexioned boy cried, emphasizing his words with a dramatic sweep of his arms, which in in turn nearly caused the doll version of Glenn Millspaugh to fly from his fingertips. "You're dead now. I win." The boy informed his fair-haired companion, speaking so matter-of-factly that one may have assumed they were merely discussing the sorry state of the weather.


The other child gazed prudently back at his brother, his mouth gradually folding into a hard line of defiance. "You can't just kill Avery Deshner with a sonic blast," The boy stressed impatiently, apparently distressed by his sibling's idiocy. "That's stupid. If he could, why hasn't he already done it so he can be Head Guardian?"





Victor's lip twitched slightly in amusement at the child's reasoning despite his overall disapproval of the Guardians. While the trio of heavily propagandized metahumans did not technically possess a "Head Guardian", so to speak, he could definitely understand why the boy may think otherwise. Deshner was by far the idolized of the three - the jewel of media's crown.


The red-faced boy contemplated his brother's explanation with extreme concentration, his nose scrunching up as he did so. Apparently finding no fault in the provided logic, he shrugged, answering in an uncertain voice, "Maybe he just doesn't want to be mean?"


His sibling stared at him incredulously with eyes widened to an uncomfortable degree. "Then how's he going to beat the bad guys?" The blonde boy inquired, revealing a snaggle tooth as he grimaced painfully at his brother's answer. "You've got to kill them... Like this!" Brandishing Avery Deshner like a weapon, the child swung the doll at the plastic figure of Glenn Millspaugh as though he was a baseball, sending it clattering out of the ruddy boy's hand and onto Victor's feet.


Recoiling in surprise, Victor withdrew his elbows abruptly from the counter, nearly striking the Rubenesque, wide-eyed woman waiting in line behind him. She glared disdainfully at him as if personally offended by his lack of coordination. The two boys gazed at Victor, their faces peeled back into expressions of undaunted horror as he stooped low, the tattered fringes of his jacket brushing the floor as he gently scooped the toy up in one hand. He held the doll below his chest, examining its plastic, painted face with puzzlement. How was it that a man such as Glenn Millspaugh - short, awkward, with a small protruding pot-belly - could possibly have climbed the prejudiced latter of society and social media, and be considered one of the most famous individuals of modern day? What made him so special? Victor felt his stomach twinge uncomfortably, which was no doubt an effect of the lack of food he had consumed, he reassured himself hastily.


The conjoined forces of two pairs of concentrated eyes eventually tore Victor from his inquiries, snapping him back to reality. The tiny boy crept forward hesitantly, his thoughts shining clearly in his blue eyes as he approached the funny-looking stranger. Victor let out a breathless laugh; adults could so easily manipulate their expressions to reflect their desired reactions, but with children... One only had to look to a child to determine what people really thought. He was not offended, however. Honesty was always appreciated. It was...refreshing. The world was already enough of an illusion itself; there was no need for more deception.


Victor held out his hand - the little figurine laying noiselessly on the surface of his palm. The little boy reached cautiously for it, accepting the toy only after Victor offered him a small smile. The child withdrew his hand immediately, taking care not to accidentally brush up against the strange man's skin. "Thanks Mister," He mumbled obligingly, perhaps reciting the same monotonous gratification his mother forced him to rehearse.


Victor nodded in acknowledgement, gently pressing a finger to his glasses to keep them from sliding down his nose as he gazed downwards at the small child. It was an odd sensation; Victor rarely found himself towering above anyone... Even the majority of his students seemed to have a few inches on him. He discovered that he rather liked the feeling. Just as the boy was about to hastily make his way back to his brother, Victor placed a hand on his shoulder, causing the child to stiffen instinctively. "You were right, by the way," Victor said, loud enough for only the boy to hear. "No one can withstand a sonic blast. Not even Avery Deshner," Instead of receiving laughter or at least a small smile as he had expected, the boy quickly shrugged Victor's hand away, shooting him a terrified look, before hurriedly retreating to his family. Victor sighed quietly; he should have known. Scary stranger engaging in personal conversation? Of course the boy would run away. Any sane child would.


"That one yours?" The woman behind him asked abruptly, gesturing impatiently at a steaming cup of coffee when Victor failed to recognize what she was referencing. Grabbing the coffee in one hand, he anxiously checked his clock once more. Damn appallingly slow coffee machines - he was going to be late. That would definitely leave an excellent first impression on his new team. Unless... Maybe if he cut through a few streets... Victor walked briskly toward the café's door, wincing in pain and frustration as coffee sloshed up onto his arm, staining the cuff of his white dress shirt. Oh yes, what a fine impression he made indeed.


- - -


No matter how many times Victor passed through the atypically average-sized doors of the U.N., he was always surprised by the utter lack of grandeur that the building possessed. It was simply natural for one to assume that a location of such importance would maintain at least a shred of superfluous class, but in actuality the headquarters remained quite modest. Victor was only slightly disappointed. Straightening his shoulders and tilting his chin up slightly in effort to appear somewhat confident, Victor made his way into the building, his pace quickening as a satisfying feeling of purpose took its place. He was glad to be back.


Victor passed through security with little difficulty, stopped only once when he had forgotten to unstrap his metal watch from his wrist. The procedure was headed by a young skittish man who seemed to be under the impression that everything - both non-stationary and stationary alike - could potentially conspire against him. Victor felt a twinge of pity for the boy; he wouldn't last a minute out in the field. Fortunately, those measures needn't be taken. Project Atlas had everything taken care of.


Proceeding down the narrow halls leading to Conference Room C., Victor could not help but find amusement in Project Atlas's vain attempts to add personality to their headquarters. There were only so many things a military bunker could pretend to be. A few strategically placed paintings did nothing to alter that fact. Nodding politely to a couple of staff officials, Victor approached his destination. Creaking the conference room door open quietly, Victor was met by a petite, Korean woman who was surveying an array of breakfast pastries with poorly contained excitement, and a (purposefully) unruly-haired man he vaguely recognized as Geoffrey Vaughn. He nearly cried when he spotted the coffee machine sitting next to them. Ah well, it was no use lamenting his poor decision now. Offering Geoffrey and the young woman a small, obligatory smile and brief, "good morning," Victor draped his jacket upon one of the many unoccupied black, leather chairs, and took his seat, unsuccessfully attempting to conceal the coffee stain blemishing his shirt. He could only hope that the others would fail to notice.

 

[Ozmic]

AWAKENING - 08:00

​

A violent and urgent sounded beeping tore forth from the multi-speaker sound system resting on the top of G's cluttered desk and he jolted upward with a start, glasses tumbling from his head and into his outstretched hands. "Christ!" he snapped, fumbling for his keyboard and typing in a lengthy password to disable the alarm. He'd done it again - fallen asleep at his desk - but at least he'd been at home and thoughtful enough to set an alarm. Cursing his past self for the choice of tone, he rose and checked the time.


Hours ahead of schedule. Perfect.


Sighing in relief, he finished what he'd been doing - a small report on the effects of physical stimulation and the response of his abilities - and extracted the thumb drive in which his studies were saved. Placing in his safe, he moved about his bedroom quickly and precisely, gathering the clothing for the day and getting his things ready before exiting toward the washroom.


Starting the shower with a small touchpad by the door, he waited for a moment as the heat rose and stretched his sore muscles. Looking over his arms and chest as he undressed and carefully deposited yesterday's clothing in the hamper, he winced at the bruises there and the swollen muscles. His body had reacted just as predicted to the situation, but he was not superhumanly strong or quick. The reaction had taken a toll as it always did.


Shaking his head, he stepped into the shower and quickly washed himself, exiting and drying just as swiftly and finishing his usual routine; matte wax in his hair to keep it at least purposefully 'unkempt' in a sort of style, lotion, deodorant and his clothing. Dressing carefully, he did and undid his tie a number of times, finally cursing the plain black thing and leaving it slightly unkempt.


Finally finished, he checked the few messages he had on both his mobile phone and computer, and promptly headed out the door and en route to Project Atlas. When he arrived and parked, he spent a good ten minutes of time checking and double checking all of his security clearances and made sure he had them before heading in. The man had never had an issue with security, but all the same, he checked just and frantically every day to keep it that way.


He greeted the few security personnel quickly and bluntly as usual. A few gave smirks and shook their head once he passed. He was harmless now - they had gotten used to the eccentricities of the paranoid man in the time he'd been at Atlas. This type of entrance was a very likely happenstance every time they saw Geoffrey.


Arriving, he checked his watch to realize he was just at a half an hour early. Giving another relieved sigh, he paced back and forth for a moment as if unsure what to do with himself, then decided that caffeine would be a better choice than fidgeting aimlessly AND it would keep him fueled throughout the meeting and the day that would follow.


Heading toward the conference room, he moved into the doorway and froze. It was her. A look of discomfort passed across Geoff's face as he studied Jenna from the door. It wasn't that he disliked the woman - far from it - but her attitude was a harsh contrast to his own dismal outlook. She was almost cripplingly joyful some days and it wore the introverted male out. Still, they had shared a couple of discussions of merit on occasion and he respected her... he just found himself wishing she wasn't so damned chipper all the time.


Pondering heading back the way he came, he groaned and stepped fully into the room. "Good morning, Jenna," he stated plainly and moved toward the selection of pastries and the coffeemaker. Ignoring the pastries entirely (but eyeing them all the same), he poured a cup of black coffee and took a small sip after blowing upon it gently.


Tapping his fingers against the cheap cup, he jittered this way and that for a moment before speaking again after a beat in silence. "I hope you're well today." Though generally phrased as a question, Geoffrey spoke this as a plain-and-simple statement, raising his right brow at her survey of the pastries.


Another greeting echoed behind them and Geoffrey turned to face the source of the voice in mild surprise. Raising a brow at the coffee stained shirt of the sitting man, he said nothing of it, instead offering a nod and a return greeting. "Good day, Victor," he uttered plainly as he placed a lid on his coffee and moved to the wall to wait.

 

[Erica]

The cold morning light cast lovely and decadent shadows across the streets and alleyways of New York City. Vivienne Côte stepped out of a coffee shop, dressed smartly in black and reaching for a cigarette to serve as both refuge and distraction from the text she had received early that morning.

THEM

them

AM MTGS CXLD.

them

SPEC TRANSLATION SRVCS REQ. 10:30 CONF RM C.

me

Received.

It had been a brief and thrilling exchange, reflective of the efficient and wholly military approach to communications the Project often adopted. Within the program she had found people, as individuals, to be generally professional; even reasonable. But once they started acting as a group or speaking in code, their martially bureaucratic flair shone through in its full glory. It was a good thing, overall; it served to remind her who she was working for.


So far, the work had not been overly difficult, nor had it challenged her moral reservations about working to subvert metahuman threats. On a many levels, that bothered her; perhaps she should have found a reason to express outrage by now. Maybe today would be the day; perhaps this would be the mission that forced her to choose. How she adored pretending that she hadn’t already chosen survival.


At the moment, however, she needed to catch a cab and get to the U.N. headquarters. Being late wasn’t an option; she never knew who was going to be on a team, and she didn’t want to make a bad first impression with the latest bunch of heavily armed soldiers.

Having enjoyed a leisurely breakfast with the time allotted by her rearranged morning, she now paused long enough to enjoy her cigarette, attempting to be relatively polite with the smoke she exhaled. It was hard, though; the streets were always packed here, and really, what difference did her smoke make? She had been here nine months. Long enough to bring a baby to term, and still Vivienne still had not adjusted to the unique smell of New York’s streets. As she took a final drag off the cigarette, Vivienne smirked behind her sunglasses at a woman shooting her dirty looks. Flicking the cigarette butt into the wet concrete at the woman’s feet, she turned and hailed down a cab, a subtle smile gracing her lips as she slipped into the backseat. “U.N. Headquarters,” she said as she shut the door.


The woman yelled something profane and insulting as the cab pulled away from the curb. Vivienne glanced at her phone to check the time. It would be close, but she should make it with at least five minutes to spare.

 

[Trignome]

A breeze slipped sweetly through the sill and a dim evening light burnt faintly through the cream curtains, which stirred in silent protest of Summer's plaintive sighs. There was no reason why she should hesitate; her brushes were waiting for her. The stool Will sat upon creaked under her weight as she turned back to her easel. Grey hairs, stooped by the weight of a single bead of ink, were poised to dip down in a glorious stroke over the pure canvas. It was to be the first corruption; the first flaw that led to the inconsistency known as art. Art. The skin on her arms prickled at the word as she tested the longing that dwelt in the vowel. Art. Anticipation. Adoration. Will raised her hand high and leaned close to the easel, preparing once again to begin. Summer soured, sending a surprisingly bitter wind to chill the warmth in her hands. Anxiety. The hairs of the brush lay poised over the canvas. The hairs of the brush lay frozen over the canvas. She sat frozen before the blank canvas, a testimony of her inability to corrupt. Winter shrieked through the window in anger. Antipathy. Agony.


The noise escalated to a high-pitched wail that roused Will from her dream. She bolted up from her burrow in the corner of her bed and launched herself forward to catch her scattered papers. "Christi! CHRISTI?! THE WINDOW'S CRYING!" The girl by the dresser turned off her blow dryer and shot her dorm mate a cold look, taking care not to disturb her face mask with an overly emotional glare. "What." Honestly, the fact she had to deal with that...thing...meant some high-up had assigned her to horrendous living conditions out of jealous spite. With a sigh, Christi reluctantly put her dryer next to her makeup kit and returned to her facial inspection. The room was peaceful once more, with only the clink of equipment and the occasional gasp of appraisal from either of the two girls. Otherwise, they sat in silence, facing away from each other and entirely immersed in their respective tasks. As Will finished stuffing her portfolio with her late-night sketches, she scooted to the edge of her bunk, bringing most of her bed sheets with her. She didn't bother turning to fix the mess, choosing instead to kick the heap of blankets under the mattress and grimacing slightly at the thought of all the dust under the bed. Well. Too late now.


"So...can I turn this back on, or...?" Without waiting for a response, Christi began drying her hair under the streams of hot air that screamed from the sleek dryer. Will gave the girl a baleful glance as she made her way to the dorm door. "Oh yes. I don't mind." Knowing not to expect any witty cynicism from her best friend so early in the morning, Will shoved her bare feet into her sneakers and walked out into the dormitory hallway. The tips of her shoelaces flopped behind her heels and made a soft tapping sound against the sparse carpeting.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

​

As Will was biting into her fourth slice of toast, the chime of bells sounded from her pocket. She reached into her sweatpants while balancing her plate precariously on a small heap of single-serve butter wrappers. She noted the time on her phone, 9:45 AM, before swiping the screen with her thumb and checking the alert. February 10: UN M. 10:30. “SHOOT ME!” Will cried, while the boy sitting across the table glanced up from his pancake platter. "…Uh…I don’t t-think that’s…a good-" “Give me your jacket!”


Several students glanced up dazedly from their tomes and phones as a chair crashed to the ground. Jack stood, partially stooped over his upturned chair, with a meek smile crimpling the corners of his mouth. “…Just…don’t forget to…return it…?” But Will was already halfway to the cafeteria entrance, entirely deaf to his words. He picked up his seat and settled back down over his spongy pancakes, wondering if Will would indeed remember to bring back his jacket. It wouldn’t be the first time his clothes were stolen, though Jack was slightly comforted by the fact that this time he at least knew the person who’d taken it. And she’d definitely return it. Hopefully.


It wasn’t snowing when Will burst through the cafeteria doors and ran down the walkway. The ground was covered with frost, though, and more than once she had to stop, knock-kneed and shaking, from an averted slip on the icy concrete. Finally, she made it off-campus and glanced around, pulling her friend’s jacket awkwardly around the messenger bag that rested at her hip. She hadn’t bothered removing her bag before putting on the jacket, and now that she was outside in a February morning Will had no desire to adjust her attire. With her hand outstretched to hail a taxi, she desperately wished she’d remembered to wear socks that morning. What little breeze there was nipped at her bare ankles, mocking her harried appearance and threatening to snap her feet right off from the cold.


Thankfully, some kindly taxi driver must have taken pity on her ragged attire, since a ride soon pulled up to the curb in front of her. As Will slide into the welcoming smell of warm, faux leather upholstery, she checked her phone again. 10:02.


“Your destination?”


“Shit.”


The portly old man glanced up at his rear-view mirror, raising a bushy grey brow. “Where?”


Will’s face turned redder, embarrassment compounded on the cold, as she became aware of the inopportune timing of her profanity. “The UN building.” She paused. “Please?”


Ah…the impulsivity of today’s youths. The girl was surely off to meet some sordid lover at the monumental site. With a slight chuckle, the driver slide the taxi out of the curb and started down the road. “Sure thing, miss.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

​

10:24.


If Will checked her phone, she would have known that, thanks to the taxi driver’s diligence and detour routes, she wasn’t late for the meeting. But being of the mindset that she was already late, the girl didn’t bother even pulling her phone out as she barreled past darkened doors and stairwells leading up to the floor she’d just descended from. Her messenger bag kept hitting her thigh as she half-sprinted, half-jogged through the hallway. Conference room C. Conference room C. In her panic, Will had the nagging feeling that she’d already passed the room, several times. How come she couldn’t count her letters properly? Or, would it be lettering, since letters weren’t numbers? Maybe she took a wrong turn, so the last conference room in this hallway would be B, which meant she’d have to find another stairwell. Those things always managed to disappear when she needed them. Woah, it's like the moving staircases in Hogwarts. Except much worse, because it was probably already 11:00 and the meeting was well under way. What if they shipped her off to some secret laboratory because she’d failed to arrive to the meeting on time? Or, what if it wasn’t actually a meeting, and conference room C was the secret laboratory?


Halfway down the hall, Will finally found the room, though she was now in no hurry to enter. She paused to take off the tattered letter-man jacket still slung over her shoulders, and tucked it over her messenger bag. With a small sigh to steady her frayed nerves, the girl swept her sweat-dampened bangs from her forehead and stepped into the room. "Hello!" Will quipped loudly. But the greeting died on her lips as she finally noticed who exactly she'd be sharing the room with. It was that girl again; that other Asian girl. Little Miss Sunshine. Don't tell me she's also going to be a test subject? I hope they use her as a pin cushion...Will thought viciously as she pursed her lips and looked away. There were two other people in the room. The man that stood against the wall was the ex-gang member she sometimes met in the training grounds. He was currently wearing a long-sleeved, collared shirt with a loose black tie. But Will knew there were biker cult tattoos hidden beneath the conservative attire. With a wide smile, the girl gave a sly, knowing look in the man's direction before turning to the person already seated at the conference table. The smile soon fell as her eyes practically bulged in surprise. "P-professor. You...good morning." she throttled the generic greeting out of her throat as her mind frantically searched for something to say.

 

[Syrenrei]

Jenna beamed her usual bright smile as she collected her morning offerings. While the others might be hesitant, reluctant, or simply disinterested in the pastries, she was more than happy to make up for what they would not partake. It did not matter what quality the edibles were- Jenna was not a picky person in general- so long as they were sincere gifts. Of course she recognized it as business etiquette practiced a hundred times over in corporate and governmental affairs without any real emotion. Still, someone had to create them with care, someone had to order, carry or deliver, and arrange even the most basic spread. It seemed a little rude not to partake even if no one at Project Atlas would take offense. She filled a cup with coffee and took both a bagel and a scone with her to the table. Fortunately for her new companions, eating met that her optimistic banter would be muted until she had finished.


She nodded at the greetings (since her mouth was too full to vocalize anything) and by the entrance of the third metahuman her mind was wandering. Jenna had assumed this was just another routine mission that she was to be briefed for. Her expectations had been to see another metahuman in the room and several 'normal' humans but... so far it was just four metahumans. There were far too few of them for this to be some manner of conference about metahumans in the project as a whole, yet too many for this to be a typical assignment. Her brows furrowed slightly in contemplation as she considered the implications of this gathering. To her knowledge she had not done anything to make the organization unhappy with her and no one else appeared particularly worried. Geoffrey was edgy, but that was his usual charm and not anything abnormal- if he truly feared Project Atlas was going to deliver bad news she expected he'd been very obviously disturbed. Problems within Project Atlas were also handled personally as far as she was aware as well. She'd be called into someone's office regarding a poor review, not into a conference to discuss it. Besides, the organization was especially pleased with her as of late due to her development in absorbing the injuries of others. Something else was afoot. Commendations? That would be offered personally as well. Surely they wouldn't be here for the same mission either: no one trusted that many metahumans together at once without proper 'normal' human oversight.


Halfway through her bagel she started to take more note of the variety of powers gathered. Jenna was aware there were a few others abroad that had some sort of healing or absorption powers that were similar to her, but none of them were present. If anything it seemed as if they were a purposefully diverse assortment. Their personalities and ages were also different enough that there was no obvious connection. They were, as far as she could tell, joined only in uniformity by the facts they were metahumans with Project Atlas. The last bit of bagel was chewed, swallowed, and chased down by the bland yet pleasantly hot coffee.


Odd. How very odd this was.


Pushing aside her concerns she flashed another round of ridiculously bright smiles at her compatriots. Wouldn't it be nice to start off the morning with a pleasant conversation? This didn't have to be all business, after all, and the best jobs were when everyone got along. No one seemed quite as dedicated to this mentality as Jenna herself was, but she was okay waiting for them to come around. It might take days, weeks, months, years before they came to all appreciate the company of one another, but Jenna was certain it happen eventually. Project Atlas would not make the mistake of inviting someone to their organization who did not deserve her respect and friendship. "Good morning, Geoffrey! I hope all of your research is going well! This meeting must be very important for them to pull you away from your work." Jenna's flattery was both effortless and genuine. From another lady of her marital status and age it might have some other connotations, but Jenna was this way with everyone. As far as she was concerned there was brilliance that needed praise in almost all.


"I always get excited for meetings," she confessed. There were no conditions placed on that sentence which implied any meeting would make her similarly thrilled. Considering her ebullient disposition this came as a surprise to absolutely no one. She wasn't talking to anyone in particular with this statement, just hoping to fill the dead space with a little excitement. Jenna nibbled at her scone, sipped her coffee, and then gave her full attention to Victor. "I hope you didn't have to cancel too many classes," she bubbled out, her tone joyful yet completely serious- she was not being mocking nor sarcastic. "Passing on knowledge to others is so very important." Nodding for emphasis she took another bite of her pastry.

 

[Widget]

It was a general, unspoken rule that all things and people pertaining to a metahuman's existence in the "real world", remained definably separate from their life within Project Atlas. The two were never to be conjoined; the end result was always irreparably messy. It was a law that everyone within the organization abided by... Well, apparently not everyone. Slowly, methodically, Victor pushed the bridge of his glasses closer to his face until his eyelashes brushed the lenses' thick surface, and blinked. Any lingering hope that he was simply misidentifying misshapen, eerily human-shaped inanimate objects dissipated, leaving him feeling personally offended by his assignor's blatant disregard for the "rule".


Gazing with his mouth slightly ajar, Victor took in the horrified, desperate expression currently plastered on his pupil's face, and hastily attempted to breach the silence that was growing with each passing second. "Good morning, Miss Fu," He greeted unimaginatively, coughing preemptively before he could be over-swept in another wave awkward silence. "I, uh, read your essay concerning the impact of Vlad Țepeș and Sultan Mehmed II's rivalry on civilized people. It was very..." Victor paused briefly as he struggled internally to find the appropriate diction, "Original." He grimaced as the words left his mouth, the pretentiousness of his statement not passing unrecognized. Must disengage - abort mission.


In vain, Victor inconspicuously tried to fold the cuff of his stained sleeve over once more, but ultimately could do nothing more but to look on helplessly as it once again lay limp and crumpled upon his thin wrist. Adamantly feigning immense interest in the steadily percolating coffee machine, he shot a puzzled, cursory glance in Miss Fu's direction. There was no doubting the girl's intelligence; she had proven herself to be comprehensive and innovative in a multitude of class sessions... But there came the impending question of Miss Fu's maturity. She was barely an adult in legal terms - still a child at heart - she didn't know exactly what getting involved with Project Atlas entitled. Victor felt a sudden resentment towards the aforementioned organization. Oh, he was certain they knew what they were doing. Young people were always the easiest to manipulate. Idealistic and fresh-minded they granted their trust and dedication upon anything that promised a better outcome than the one currently provided. There was a reason nationalism proved such an impactful tool, especially among juvenile adults.


Scanning the conference room's expansive interior, Victor could not shake the feeling that something was off. It was only after a moment of brief contemplation that he recognized the source of his discomfort. The Saturn Accord was being completely disregarded. He had immediately recognized Geoffrey as a metahuman, having worked with him a number of times in the past. It was true that there were times in which Victor occasionally found himself growing envious of the man's reactionary powers, so much more affective than his own. Not that Victor would ever voice his jealousy; that would be catastrophic. Then there was the Korean woman, Jenna, who was currently attempting to smile at everyone simultaneously. Given that her mouth was currently stuffed with copious amounts of pastry material, she seemed to be finding such feat difficult, if not impossible. Victor had recalled seeing her numerous times throughout Headquarters, and automatically assumed that she was a meeting official when he originally set foot in the conference room. Now, glancing around at the other two metahumans before him, Victor believed that it was safe to say that she was one of them as well. But why would Project Atlas so willingly break the accord in which the United Nations, and by default, Atlas itself, had set? Propaganda? An ultimate metahuman team to rally support from enthusiastic fans? Victor quickly disbanded the thought as he caught sight of his silhouette reflected from the window. So, there was to be no trashy reality show based on the lives of four metahumans, then. He was not exactly sure how to feel about that.


Victor's head nodded up in surprise as Jenna's ebullient voice broke through the silence, frowning mildly in confusion as she enthusiastically confessed her excitement for meetings. An odd thing to say; not everyone would willingly admit their profound love for sitting around at an over-sized table while others announced their smug claims, voices nearly brimming with barely contained self-absorption. He was thrown off guard once again when Jenna addressed him personally, joyfully expressing the importance of knowledge. Victor cast a strange, somewhat apprehensive look in her direction, his eyebrows furrowing as he did so. Was she perhaps attempting to mock him with her possibly(?), potentially(?), condescending words? Jenna sounded genuine, at least, but Victor found it difficult to imagine that one person could possibly possess such a cheery disposition and true interest in lives other than her own. He decided to answer politely, just in case the woman's intentions had indeed been friendly. "I only had to cancel my morning class," Victor replied slowly, still eyeing Jenna with an air of suspicion. "Although I can't imagine that my students had too many qualms concerning that matter." The corner of his mouth quirked upwards slightly as he glanced pointedly at Miss Fu. There was a brief pause in which no one spoke. Victor coughed awkwardly, remembering his manners. "Thanks."

 

[Ozmic]

Sipping his coffee, G winced. It was a combination of sore muscles extending just a hair too far and the loud quip of Hello! from a familiar face from the training grounds. Turning lightly to greet her, he was met with a strange look and exhaled a sigh. If he would eventually be able to convince the young lady that he was, in fact, not an ex con or gang member, it would take a very real weight off his shoulders.


"Morning," he replied, but realized she was staring at Victor with a look of near-panic on her face. Stifling a snicker and fiddling with his tie, he looked over again to Jenna as she finished a pastry and spoke in reply to him. Despite himself, he gave a polite smile and nodded. "I suppose it is. An ever taxing process, but one I hope is very worth it in the future."


Wanting to add that his research and work with Atlas were two very different things, he was stopped by the woman's admittance to an excitement for the meeting. Biting back a snide remark on how meetings were never an exciting or joyous occasion, he went silent again and sipped at his coffee. It wasn't special, but it was caffeine. Geoffrey was not picky as long as it got the job done and kept him moving.


He wondered silently just what they were all here for, a tinge of worry gripping him as he imagined every horrific scenario. For all he knew, an Atlas higher up could be coming in to let them know they were - as per some fantastical contract - being sold to the government for experimentation. Trying to rationalize this silly idea with fact, G couldn't help but feel a tinge of cold sweat at the back of his neck and he adjusted his tie again nervously.


'Get it together,' he thought to himself, closing his eyes for a moment against a jolt of panic and willing it back. 'You've been working here long enough... if they were planning that, it would have happened AGES ago.'

 

[Erica]

Vivienne glanced at the clock. One of those old-fashioned white-faced clocks with bars over it, as if whoever installed it expected a nuclear attack. To be fair, this bunker-decorated-as-workplace saw its fair share of destruction, or should expect to; but it still brought to mind institutions and memories less pleasant. She shook them off.


Two minutes. The security check had taken a little longer than usual, but she was not worried. Early didn’t really earn you points here. (Not that she would know if it did; she was rarely more than a few minutes early.)


Slowing her brisker pace to blend with other foot traffic as she turned the corner for the conference rooms, Vivienne noted someone standing inside near the door. Someone who did not resemble a soldier. In fact, it looked like the skittish girl she had seen in the training rooms on occasion. It struck her as odd, but not inconceivable. Someone’s demeanor did not always match their abilities. And working with another metahuman was rare, but not unheard of. She had done it before.


Then she came to the door and spotted the others. She paused just inside the doorway, eyes quickly darting to each person in turn; reaching the same conclusion many of them already had. This wasn’t a normal meeting. Vivienne looked at Geoff and Victor in particular, one brow raised skeptically toward the ceiling.


Before she could speak, however, Lieutenant Adams appeared in the doorway behind her, dressed as he had been when he met with the Colonel: black pants, white t-shirt, black jacket with the Atlas logo on the sleeve. He paused in the door frame, a small tablet in hand as he looked over the others, a half-smile on his lips. “Excellent. You’re all here.”


He then stepped inside to shut the door behind him, making his way to the smart board, speaking as he went. “I’m Lieutenant Adams, and I’ll be taking lead on this one.” He turned back to face them, noting the skeptical, trepidacious, and in some cases hostile expressions on at least a couple of faces. The tablet chimed as it synched with the smart board, but he ignored it. “Let’s get the big question out of the way. Yes, this will be an entirely enhanced team. We’re trying something different. Congratulations," he said dryly, "you’re the first. And we don’t have much time for the honeymoon phase, so.” He motioned to the smart board, which remained blank for the moment. “I’m not a fan of profiles - I prefer interaction to summaries in text - But I know what you can do. That helps, but only so much. You’ll each need to know your teammates, so let’s start with quick introductions.”


He looked over the others, noting Jenna’s eagerness in particular, and then looked directly at Will. “Miss Fu. Why don’t you start?”


(@Trignome - When you're ready )

 

[Trignome]

There were four in the room. Three drinking coffee, one underdressed. Three standing, one seated.


There were four in the room, and the fourth was in shock.


As Jenna began greeting the others, in her usually cheery way, Will stepped away from the door and approached the edge of the conference table. The light banter flitted like spring birds near the fluorescent sun while she stood, still in winter. Her hands were cold and slightly damp from how tightly she clutched at the strap of her messenger bag. With some conscious effort, Will uncurled her fingers and wiped her palms together to rid herself of the excess moisture. She wrinkled her nose slightly at the feeling. Gross.


The man seated at the table pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, waiting for words that Will could not find, since she was so suddenly enraptured by the difficult task of rubbing her hands together. Finally, he greeted his student with a dry “Good morning, Miss Fu,” followed by a polite commentary on her recently submitted paper. It was very original. Original, he said. That was a good word. But Professor Kant also frowned as he said it, a slight downward turn and tightness at the corner of his lip, almost imperceptible except that Will was looking for it. That was a bad sign. Will felt confused, wondering if somehow she’d failed Professor Kant’s expectations. But how was originality a bad thing? Unless it meant her thesis was too radical. Strange. Different. Too…original. Will tugged at the cuff of her sweatshirt and chewed at the words pasted on the inside of her cheek. He was merely being kind.


It wasn’t long before Jenna’s little birds found purchase in the professor’s thin hair. He answered the woman’s questions with just as polite a demeanor as he had returned Will’s greeting. Apparently, he had canceled class to attend this meeting. Will knew that now. She thought that it was merely a convenient coincidence that she did not have to report her absence in advance, since the teacher would be absent. Will frowned and muttered to herself, “I should have known…” What other reason would the professor happen to have a prior engagement, on the same day and hour as she, considering their shared status as metahumans? Noticing the pointed expression Professor Kant was giving her, Will silently nodded her head. It wasn’t that she disliked history, much, but the plethora of end-of-term papers had left the girl feeling entirely resentful of any and all classes. Once she realized that she was unconsciously agreeing with the professor’s statement, the girl abruptly started shaking her head in denial. “What, no! Surely someone somewhere was saddened by the news.” She paused. “I mean that I was saddened by the news. As well.” Then Will shrugged her shoulders sheepishly, knowing that the untruth she’d told, as obvious as it was, could only be taken as a joke.


Deciding that it was best to keep a distance from her professor, she glanced over at the woman who stood happily by the coffee table, an arsenal of chirper aviators perched and ready on her tongue. Will narrowed her eyes, slightly, squinting to count the wispy feathers she imagined were sticking out from the corners of the woman’s faint smile. It was while she was preoccupied with deciding what obnoxiously bright shade of yellow the birds were that the door to the conference room opened again. With a generic greeting already prepared, Will turned towards the door to say hello. And she silently blanched at the thought as soon as the person stepped into the room. Yet another metahuman, and Will knew the newcomer was dangerous.


Before the door had time to close, however, yet another person walked in. T’was a day full of surprises for Willoughby, Will thought as she stepped to the side, allowing the man to make his way to the front of the room. “I’m Lieutenant Adams, and I’ll be taking lead on this one.” His introduction was clear, concise, and explained nothing of the situation. An entirely enhanced team? Why? Will tilted her head to one side and brushed her hair back in frustration. But before she could voice her complaints, the lieutenant prompted for introductions from the rest of the new team. He looked directly at her and asked, “Miss Fu. Why don’t you start?”


“Me?” Will blinked at the sudden prompting, giving Lieutenant Adams an incredulous quirk of the eyebrow before speaking again. “Well…I’m Will. That’s 'Will' with two Vs, a paintbrush, and a pair of chopsticks.” She paused, resting an arm in the crook of her messenger bag. “I know, or at least I’ve met most of you at some point. So we’re not complete strangers.” Will glanced in Professor Kant’s direction, briefly, before continuing. “I can throw paper at people." Then she fell into a comfortable silence, waiting for the next person to speak. It was far from a formal introduction, but Will had given her name, familiarity with the others, and a reasonably accurate description of her ability. It was good enough. It was...Original. Will smiled.

 

[Syrenrei]

Jenna had been genuinely remorseful for the professor's cancelled morning class. Victor could safely assume she was either a masterful actress that had sometimes slightly bizarre faux responses to idle conversation or she was more empathetic than the average individual. It took very little analysis and deduction to conclude the latter was more likely to be accurate. Her recovery was swift regardless and she had been eager- overly so- to engage Victor in more chatter about his teaching expertise. Geoffrey's pleasant disposition this morning had only increased her anticipation of forming firm bonds of friendship through communicative understanding. It was a success! They were talking so wonderfully and even Miss Fu (who she wasn't completely familiar with) was contributing. What a wonderful day!


When Vivienne entered her lips had parted to exclaim a greeting in exuberance. The first syllable died on her lips, however, as Lieutenant Adams entered the room. They were all metahumans- did that mean him as well? She tilted her head to the side as she looked at both the lady clad in darker hues and the military men. This would be quite the adventure! A university student, a soldier (she suspected anyway), a researcher, a professor, an OSHA employee, and... well, she wasn't sure what Vivienne did for a living. Given the variety among the rest of them she felt rather confident in assuming that it wasn't what any of the rest of them did.


Introductions? When she realized that she wasn't first, she veritably stuffed the rest of the scone into her mouth and consumed it as quickly as possible, washing it down with the coffee. For anyone who wanted to watch the alarming spectacle she had the appearance of a squirrel hiding nuts in its cheeks- yet the puffiness vanished by the time that Will had concluded. Throwing paper at people? That wasn't an ability she was overly familiar with but it sounded pretty interesting. Did the paper assume some sort of bizarre properties when she threw it? What sort of function did it serve that Project Atlas would recruit her? There had to be more to this power than was being disclosed but Lieutenant Adams hardly seemed the sort to let them discuss everything in detail at this exact moment.


She sprung up from her chair, sending it spinning behind her. Although no one else had showed any sort of anxious inclination to go next, Jenna felt absolutely compelled to go next. Her healthy respect for protocol and reverence for the feelings of others kept her from interjecting herself. She wasn't rude, just... incredibly eager. "I'm Jenna Yun-seo Kim," she burst out gleefully with a bow that was standard Korean etiquette. Her hair went flying with the gesture yet her charisma kept her looking from completely foolish. On more than one occasion a friend had admitted that there was something about Jenna's smile that made her a little less maddening- and that difference was what kept more pessimistic people from shunning her entirely. Most of the time. "I regenerate and I can absorb your injuries. I hope to be of service to all of you!"


In the history of the world there was unlikely to be another metahuman so excited to experience pain.

 

[Widget]

Given the copious amount of experience he had gained throughout the extensive life of his teaching career, Victor liked to consider himself relatively adept at discerning fiction from reality. It was a necessary skill that one must obtain in order to survive in the wild atmosphere of academic world. Students were astonishingly proficient at bowing to sufficient lows all in the name of maintaining a decent grade... Pity-provoking manipulation, plagiarism, theft - all was fair game. It was really no wonder that the naïve professors never seemed to last more than a month. Survival of the fittest. It was funny, Victor had never before considered his gene pool to be particularly 'strong'.


Biting back a smile as Miss Fu hastily attempted to mend the apparent damage she had caused, Victor had no difficulty recognizing the lack of sincerity evident in his student's voice. Ah well, at least he could appreciate the fact that she had tried to express dismay over the aforementioned class's cancellation for his sake... Or perhaps her own. It was quite indeed possible that Miss Fu belonged in the small niche of students who still believed him to be a treacherous perpetrator whose entire existence revolved around that of decimating grades and destroying children's futures. Victor furrowed his brow thoughtfully as he pondered such possibility. Given some of the radical conspiracies he had heard Miss Fu explain enthusiastically (and at great volumes) to her friends, the idea was not to be immediately dismissed. Perhaps he ought to have a conversation with her later on to clarify. Fear could only have so much use in the classroom; he would be wise not to over-do it. Students never reacted well upon learning that they spent a majority of their weekdays under a dictatorship.


The conference room door clicked audibly - a clear indication that yet another was to offer their company. Victor immediately straightened his posture, eyes narrowing as his suspicion was confirmed. Vivienne, donned in sophisticated attire as per usual, stepped through the door's narrow frame, her eyebrow raised skeptically as she quickly reached the same conclusion recently formulated by the rest of her companions. The solid, slightly rectangular form of Lieutenant Adams loomed behind her, a thin, sleek tablet held professionally in his hand. Victor offered Vivienne a small nod, before turning to gaze at Lieutenant Adams with poorly concealed skepticism. Victor had worked with Vivienne previously on occasion. The woman, while intense, retained a strict degree of professionalism that he could not help but respect. Any lingering doubt regarding the unusual nature of the current meeting vanished. Project Atlas was most certainly breaking their own contract. Everyone's a hypocrite.





Victor briefly gauged the others' reactions, unconsciously searching for a hint suggesting how to respond to the situation. Geoffrey in particular seemed anxious, but then again, the man always did retain a slight air of skittishness. Jenna was nearly brimming with enthusiasm, quipping another ebullient welcome to the newcomers, clearly unfazed. From what he could infer so far, Victor believed he could safely assume that Jenna would still be smiling and chatting cheerfully even if Project Atlas informed them that they were to be quarantined for experimental trials. Miss Fu, on the other hand, simply appeared mildly irritated by Lieutenant Adam's short explanation for Atlas's disregard for the Saturn Accord. Victor found that he could not blame her. An enhanced team? There was no need. Morena had been defeated decades ago; no metahuman (or individual, for that matter) had ever come close to posing a threat as concerning as she had... And now the media had their precious Guardians to tide them over for the time being. Unless... unless the government was concealing something from the public to decrease mass hysteria. Perhaps a new, more dangerous threat had arisen. Victor felt a shiver run down his spine, excitement flowing through his veins. Maybe this was what he had been waiting for - his purpose.


“Miss Fu. Why don’t you start?” Lieutenant Adam's calm, simple command snapped Victor out of his reverie, and he found his attention drawn to Miss Fu as she began her introduction.


Inclining his head the smallest amount at Miss Fu's brief acknowledgement of his existence, he shot his student confused glance laced with amusement as she described her ability... 'Throwing paper at people', an original way to describe one's power, however accurate. Victor knew that Miss Fu's statement had not encompassed the entire nature of her ability. Maybe she was simply attempting to be modest? Or wished to lessen the tension rabidly overcoming the conference room? If so, he quite respected his student's efforts. He feared Geoffrey may not last much longer given the current situation.


Victor was saved from coming to the decision on whether he should speak next - a decision which risked cutting someone someone's voice short or falling into uncomfortable silence while everyone mentally floundered around trying to telepathically deduce the others' thoughts. For that, Victor felt immense gratification for Jenna's excessive desire to inject herself in social interactions. He blinked in surprise as Jenna bowed before them cheerfully, her dark hair flying in front of her face, giving Victor the brief impression of Cousin It. It took a moment for Victor to comprehend Jenna's ability, as she explained it so excitedly that he refused to believe what he had heard. She absorbed others' injuries? We're expected to let a young woman experience our pain? He felt perpetually disturbed by the idea, and somewhat disgusted that Project Atlas actually allowed and took advantage of such power. Victor would say something to the officials; demoralizing usage such as that could not possibly be tolerated. He refused to believe the Atlas's leaders were aware of those actions.


As Jenna concluded her introduction, Victor exchanged glances with Geoffrey and Vivienne. When neither metahuman seemed inclined to speak he took initiative, despite the nauseating feeling that still lingered in his stomach. "My name is Victor Kant... I am an anthropology professor at Columbia University," He began factually, blandly. "I possess the ability to alter my voice at will," Victor paused thoughtfully, his eyes scanning the faces of his companions in consideration. When he spoke again, it was in the distinctively feminine and jubilant voice that many had already become accustomed to. "Which allows my identity to remain unknown to any outside parties," Victor finished, the familiar, prickle of tiredness pinching at his throat. He dismissed the sensation with a mental wave of the arm; he had experienced much worse.