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BittyBobcat

BittyBobcat

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Heroes had been in Peter's life for as long as he could remember.

They decorated billboards with bright costumes, posters with catchphrases, and action figures with small details that always seemed to rub away with too much play. The mere mention of presence of one was enough to draw dozens of fans. Their names rested on the lips of newscasters as they reported on their most recent escapades and kids as they debated which one was better (any that claimed they didn't have a favorite were lying).

Peter was no liar (not usually, at least), and his favorite hero?

Buzz.

Anyone claiming to be their biggest fan was wrong because no one else but Peter had spent hours in the training room hanging on their every word of advice. Had shared those small moments on patrol where they would teasingly point at a matchbox for sale and ask if he had a brother. Had been promised to celebrate the 'A' he got on his last Spanish test by being taken out for icecream this week (that promise was broken, but it hardly mattered now).

But when the heroes went missing—when Buzz went missing—Peter didn't worry because he knew they would be fine. They were always fine. In no time, Buzz would be greeting him as he walked into the agency every day and they would be safe and happy and everything would go back to normal again.

Peter just had to hold down the fort until then... which meant he had to get this press conference right.

...Meaning he probably should've been listening to the PR agent they'd assigned to him earlier that week (her name kept slipping his mind) as she went over the game plan one last time. But he wasn't (of course he wasn't), and the only words Peter caught were toward the tail end of the monologue.

"And if they ask about the missing cases—"

"Investigations are underway," He groaned. "We went over it yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that."

"Alright, alright." Claws (the unfortunate nickname Peter had been mentally calling her by) tapped her sharply manicured nails (the reason for the nickname) against her crossed arms. "If you've got it down, then I suppose I'll stop pestering you about it, but—"

"It's really important that this goes well," they chimed in unison (Claws with a slightly squinted glare as the sentence ended).

"Right," She briskly uncrossed her arms to pat him exactly twice on the shoulder—a stiff, but practiced motion that took the minimum amount of time it needed to be considered 'plausibly comforting'. "Well, you've got six minutes until you're on. Go wait in the wing with everyone else."

Eager to be done, Peter nodded and turned to leave the weird nook in the hall that Claws had found for their brief one on one. He was only a few feet away when she called after him, "And if you mess up your hair again, I'll find a way to get you double weight training assigned this week! Got that?"

He was lucky he wasn't facing her, because she surely would've had some sort of comment on his eyeroll. "Yes, ma'am."

~~~

Taptaptap.

It was barely audible among the dozens of other sounds backstage—frantic footsteps, confused whispers, and the incessant buzz of the lights (not to mention the dull roar of the crowd and announcer outside)—but it continued anyway. Quick, rhythmic, and impatient.

Taptaptap.

Gray didn't want to be here among all the cheers and lies. ARC claimed that it was all 'for the good of the community', but that was bullshit and anyone with half a braincell knew it. All they were doing was covering their ass... But he went along with it. He couldn't afford to fuck this up.

Taptaptap.

God, couldn't they just get it over with already?

He was sat in one of the stiff, fold-out chairs in the cluttered right wing of the stage. Though the helmet on his head hid his face, his tenseness still spoke through his body language—the way he leaned to one side of the chair, the tightness with which his arms crossed, and the relentless tapping of his foot against the concrete floor.

Gray didn't flinch when another so-called hero (Matchstick, if he remembered correctly) walked suddenly into the room, but the bouncing of his leg paused for short moment before returning to the same tap-tap-tap rhythm it had held for the past few minutes. He didn't turn his head to see him (the guy was recognizable enough just by the eye-burning brightness of his suit). Instead, he simply watched out of the corner of his eye.

Match was definitely on the younger side, though he wouldn't go so far as to pin an age. Short, thin, and (judging by the way his eyes kept darting between what could be seen of the stage from their vantage point and Gray) nervous. But the kid played it off surprisingly well. He could hear a handful of deeper breaths as Match steeled himself for the debut.

"So... big day, huh?"

Gray bit back a sarcastic reply (which the kid would've received had there not been an obviously anxious quietness to his voice). "Yup."

"Know any of the other heroes yet?"

"No."

Matchstick nodded and hummed, still absently glancing to the stage every now and then as the conversation trailed off, leaving them in a half-silence constantly broken by the stage techs.

Gray shot a glance of his own toward the clock hanging above the doorway.

Five minutes.
 
Flashbang stood in a quiet waiting room in silence, feet rooted to the ground in an inconvenient plantigrade position, something she recognized distantly as deep burgundy pain curled around her legs and up her bones, winding up and around like the heavy, humid scent of bile and oil. Her tail twitched idly behind her, the familiar clicking of her armor steadying her form even as a sharp, short knock came through the wood of the... "dressing room", Flash believed they called it.

"Out. It's starting." Handler called. Which one of them, Flashbang didn't know; it was hard to tell, since the suits they wore all smelled the same and the half-masks obscured most of their faces.

"Yes, Handler," Flashbang replied, turning—unsteadily—on her heel and walking toward the door with steps quieter than their shadow. "I will return immediately." The responses were almost robotic in tone; lacking the good-natured spunk of her usual persona. ARC would not tolerate that. Not in their work environment.

Flashbang opened the door, light taking over her eyes in a harsh contrast from the purposefully-dark dressing-room. She couldn't see, but she could recognize shapes fine, and a human in a dark suit with a mask sat in one of the plastic chairs just outside of the frame. The dark eyes of the mask immediately looked up to her, a disdainful scent trailing up to her face. "Follow the line," Handler commanded, voice almost a drawl, as it always is. "Behave."

"As I am expected to," Flash replied. "Efficient and without flaw."

Handler nodded approvingly, waving her off in the vague direction of the line of new heroes awaiting their debut. "Efficient and without flaw."

Flashbang walked into the waiting room, having followed the faint gold line her A.I. provided for her. It was a simple thing, showing directions when requested and showing such on the glass display of their helmet.

There were others there, but Flash ignored them in favor of finding a wall to put her back to and stand in a ready position, back ramrod straight and tail resting, curled over her feet.

Standing as she was was starting to actually hurt. Bright pinpricks of magenta in among the burgundy, piercing through her aching bones to sharpen the soreness into a sword.

The others were talking. Flash barely registered it, other than analyzing it tor mal intent and throwing it away. Their tail twitched, armor clicking sharply.

Five minutes.

~~~~~~

"Are you sure this is okay?" Platinum asked for the fourth time in as many minutes, stroking the scales along Jet's neck carefully. "It's kind... kinda..."

Jet tilted his head with a soft croon, plating smoothing under his husband's touch easily. "Dehumanizing? Love, you and I both know I couldn't pass for human if I tried," he replied, voice a little unsteady as he got used to speaking again in the form he was in. It was odd; like something was trying to poorly mimic another's voice, crackling and airy; a hiss. Not to mention the muscle control needed to make the movements. "Not like this, anyway." He trailed a hand—talon; that's a talon—through Platinum's hair carefully. A deep hum followed, the sound rolling in a way comparable to distant thunder. "I'll be okay."

He got a Look in return, Platinum looking over his glasses in That Way that makes him look like he's about to whack someone with a shovel. "Bullshit."

With a long sigh, Jet unraveled himself from the dressing-room's chair, tail sliding across the floor in a careful movement to avoid objects. His wings lifted off the floor and stretched slightly before folding as he lifted his head off of Platinum's lap and rested his jaw on his partner's head. "Either way," he said, voice lowering to a thick rumble, "it's too late to change it, now."

The sigh from his husband butchered Jet's willpower, prompting another croon. This one, however, was softer; sad. "I'll... I'll fix this," Platinum murmured, letting his hand fall from Jet's neck to his shoulder. "I'll make them fix this."

"You don't have to," the new hero replied, dipping his head down to press his muzzle against Platinum's neck. "I'm gonna be okay. It's just for a few hours per day."

The knocking drew him away not a moment after they shared a breath, and Jet stepped out into the much louder backstage area. His new work associate—Handler, they called him—stood in front of him, mask in place and holding a steel muzzle that—to Jet—looked quite easy to break. The man was a little thing, not quite as small as Platinum was, but certainly nowhere even near Jet's height. He wasn't even up to the Seraph's sternum.

Nevertheless, Jet ducked his head and allowed the cold metal to be placed against the back of his skull, rough, unsteady hands fumbling the latch once or twice before it finally closed around his mouth. While it was humiliating, he understood why they wanted to keep it there. He knew better than most how objectively terrifying Kadoshi Seraphs appeared.

"You walk up on that stage and give them a nice, loud roar at my signal," Jet's handler—Jeremy, he believed—said. "No talking; look as much of a well-trained dog as you can."

Jet tilted his head, but only chuffed in reply, as if to show that he understood and wouldn't be trying anything; so long as they didn't try and feed him anything weird. He'd tolerate many things, but that was a tad too close to the line for his liking. Messing with his body was one thing, and his food was another; simple.

The click of the halter-lead being snapped into place drew him back to the present, ears twitching in mild discomfort.

"We have a few minutes, so we're going to the waiting room."

Jet kept walking, keeping his steps short so as to not step on Jeremy. Idly, he ran his tongue over his teeth. At least they didn't give him a bit. Now wouldn't that be a fiasco with Platinum.

The only thing that was currently bothering him was the tightness of the halter-lead, Jeremy keeping maybe three feet of of lead between him and Jet. As of the moment, that made it very hard to walk, seeing as Jet had quite a bit more than three feet on Jeremy.

Well, it didn't matter much, anyway. They were already entering the waiting room.

Jet ducked and rocked his wings back to fit through the door, claws scraping on the wood from the odd position. If he had more room, he would have just dropped to quadrupedal, but a sharp jerk reminded him that he did not have the room to move.

He got some slack when Jeremy sat down, though, allowing Jet to lay down and stretch out across a fair portion of the floor. He gave a cursory glance at the heroes currently in the room. Cat, armored lizard-person, and—Matchstick!

Jet's ears perked up and forward, tips curving back in that signature way that he used to communicate friendliness... not that he could speak at the moment. But still! Matchstick was right across from him trying to make small-talk with the cat hero. For now, at least, he was alright... as much as he could be.
 
When Wrath first opened her eyes again, she almost thought she was back in Rome somehow. No one spoke Latin as their native language anymore it seemed, but that was fairly normal. Humans' languages changed by the year and Wrath would not be surprised if she had been asleep for a century or so. However, the people who had retrieved her from her coffin and had poked and prodded and questioned endlessly to "find out what made her tick" informed her that she had been asleep upwards of two thousand years and she was someplace called "Murica" (why the short, silver-haired one snickered when he informed her of this she could only guess).

Around the time Wrath learned enough of the new language (they called it English) to communicate, she began to grow bored of their experiments. It had been rather novel to see automation and electronics at work and she enjoyed the occasional spar with one of their soldiers, but Wrath had exhausted her entertainment options. She therefore told the next person she saw that if they didn't let her out, she would break out or, at the very least, break them. So began her new employment contract with ARC as a hero, apparently just in time to help replace a missing batch. Huh.


Wrath didn't quite understand this whole hero business, but she understood this upcoming 'Press Conference' even less. At least with hero-ing she could fight something. She was good at that. Well, meeting colleagues was beneficial she supposed.

Making her way to the backstage behind a 'PR agent,' Wrath could feel someone's annoyance and someone else's impatience-anger. The annoyance was heading away so she went ahead and snacked on it, completely ignoring whatever the agent was saying. Ooooh more annoyance!

"Stop eating and pay attention," they scowled. "Remember, if they ask where you're from, you're a refugee who was taken in by ARC as a child. No rock puns. Your image is strong and stoic."

Wrath nodded. She would do what she wanted, but the agent didn't need to know that.

They finally reached the backstage (where Wrath noted the impatience-anger was) and the agent let her in after a stern warning not to start any fights for the sake of her stomach, which Wrath found unjust because she was always hungry now with these restrictions those cursed monks shackled her with but that didn't mean she started fights.

Two of Wrath's new colleagues looked slightly draconian and she resolved to get to know the one she wasn't already familiar with. There was a young one next to the source of impatience-anger...

"Do you mind if I eat?" Before she consciously decided to, she was asking his permission. "I'm starving."
 
Lan never changed into his Gaurdian Angel costume at his apartment, because he lived on the fifth floor; and he rather liked keeping his secret identity a secret. Which is why he was currently getting ready in one of Arc's dressing rooms. Well, it was clean at least.

" Do you need help in there?" Lee had been Karma's PR agent before the later had went missing, so it made sense that he would be assigned to Lan. Didn't piss the newly appointed hero off any less though.

" Of course I don't need help taking out a fucking contact. I'm not 12," you see, there were many issues grating on his nerves at the moment; including- but not limited to:
- He couldn't stop blinking to get the aforementioned god-damn contact out of his damn eye.
- Lee was here, and honestly; fuck that guy.
- Kim had to just up an disappear like an asshole in the first place.
- Where was he anyways?
- What happened to him?
- Was he even still alive?
- He had just poked his own eye again, for the sixth time.

Lan made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan, and wiped a tear away. He was crying because of the eye poking; not because the Karma thing. Obviously.

His next attempt at removing the lens was thankfully more successful than the past ones, and he was finally done. He slipped the colored contact back into its case, and tossed it into a bag with the rest of his civilian clothing before leaving the dressing room.

" I'm done. Lets get this over with, " Lan's scowl only grew deeper by the word, as he handed the taller man the bag of clothing. Lee's brows knit together in concern at Lan's expression.

"...You okay?" The hesitance was evident in Lee's voice, because he already knew the answer was " no ". He attempted a comforting shoulder pat, but Lan jerked away pointedly.

" Peachy," He replied.

He did look sort of peachy. Some quick stage make-up kept his eyes from looking too irritated, his hair was neat and braided as always, and the white of his costume was spotless- mostly due to the fact he hadn't used it for anything but training yet. The two walked as Lee spoke, the conversation was one sided.

" Good. Good- just," Lan's older brother slash PR agent paused, carefully picking his words before speaking.
" Be good okay? Don't swear, try to smile, maybe look angelic at all- please "

Lan might have snorted at that; but he greatly lacked a sense of humor.
He didn't answer before leaving Lee to... Do paper work or some shit.

He didn't sit down after entering the room with the rest of the waiting heroes; because he hated sitting, deciding instead to cross his arms and tap his foot against the floor board whilst standing.

---

Now, where was that No Name hero anyways?

Well you see, that is a long story; but the shorter version does involve a nap. A long nap. In fact it was such a long nap, it was basically just sleeping.

"Nikias Sterling!" Well, that woke him up. That and the swift bop on the head. It was Arinya's voice, and defiantly her cane; not exactly a PR agent, considering No Name had all the public presence of a field mouse; but more of an arc appointed babysitter.

" Oh, hey Nya," he slurred slightly, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
" Where you watchin' me sleep, lol"

Arinya opened her mouth to reply, and then closed it again.

" Say that again, and this time think about it."

" ... Where you... listening to me sleep...lol,"

She bopped him over the head with her cane once more.

" Stop saying lol out loud and get up; you were supposed to be at the hero introduction thing already dumbass! "

She grabbed him by the hood of his jacket, and yanked him up ( honestly and impressive feat considering he was more than half a foot taller than her, and not willing to help at all ) until he was standing.

It took several talked off ears and pulled hoodies to get Niki into the car and on his way to do the job he was being paid for, as it normally did.

But honestly; it wasn't like anyone would remember No Name showing up a bit late.
 
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Belonging to two worlds meant that, inevitably, one ends up belonging to neither.

Haine was already sitting in the waiting room when the slow procession of newly-minted heroes began, like a newborn dribbling Gerber’s apple sauce all over themselves. It was a helpless, hopelessly pitiful sight.

He was perched up on his folding chair, cross-legged in an impossibly uncomfortable-looking position, and yet he didn’t seem to mind. His eyes were closed, his hands folded neatly in his lap. He was statuesque, like a pretty little gargoyle. Boy, Sculpture in Marble.

The air of the waiting room was heavy, thick, and pungent. Which was not to say that it was improperly ventilated. Surely, ARC would spare no expense—unless they could help it—to ensure their new crop of heroes were comfortable. And under control. But climate control wasn’t the issue. The air was thick with something else. Like electricity. Perhaps a good word for it would be anticipation. Or dread. Either way, if anybody dropped a toaster in here they’d all likely fry to death.

Haine didn’t have to open his eyes to tell that he was being watched. He’d been watched his whole life, long enough to know what it felt like. Gerald—oh, if there was ever a more perfect name for that man he would have liked to hear it—had finally relinquished him of his constant supervision, if only because, it seemed, no Handlers were allowed in here. There was nothing noteworthy about Gerald which, he supposed, was in itself worth noting. He was a man desperate for any iota of control. He was a man of his time. A man, living in the Age of Gods.

Haine—no, Neve; he was working now, after all—cracked open an eye. His gaze found a few of his fellows. He counted the ones he could name. Matchstick. Nine... And on, and on.

As his eyes traced the boundaries of the room, they found the clock. Almost showtime.
 
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ARC Press Conference - Impulse's Changing Room
It would be a massive understatement right now to say Max was nervous, he'd been up all night unable to sleep. He'd been tossing and turning all night with thoughts and fears running wild like a rampaging storm in his head, fraying his nerves to their limits and making rest all but impossible. At breakfast surrounded by all the other ARC kids he couldn't stomach anything from his cereal bowl, barely manged to even stomach his medication, and even on his trip here riding alongisde Peter he'd been unusually quiet. Entering he'd just hid in his Matchstick hoodie and kept his head down as he slinked inside blending into the gathered crowd like he wanted to disappear. But could you really blame the poor kid?

Up until a week ago he'd just been a sidekick-in-training who'd been kept out of the spotlight, and had seen little more field work than supporting some search and rescue missions and following along on patrol just to observe real heroes. Hell he didn't even have his proper gear all ready, not till now at least. Sure R&D had prototyped it with him, he'd tried out and tested basic versions of all the gear even trained with and sparred in the prototypes but before now it'd been a stretch to even call him a sidekick he was just a trainee with a name.
Now one week later with what happened with Buzz and the other heroes... All that had all suddenly changed.

Max mentally knew this to be the case but now as he stood now alone in the changing room with his new agent waiting just outside the door, his heart was pounding as he opened the large package that had been left here for him. Immediately he couldn't help but have tears begin to well up in his eyes. There it all was all before him - black, yellow, white and blue, every last piece of him - it was Impulse! He didn't want to cry but he couldn't help it, seeing the shiny reflection off his helmet, then the power-skates, his weapons, even the jumpsuit all there reflecting a glean and shine from the changing rooms lights back at him. It was just all too much! It was the conclusion of what had been more than a year of keeping secrets, of countless doctors visits and exams, of two months at HIVE where Max felt like he was drowning under all the weight of meetings with the PR media team, R&D, Legal, and all the in-house training. It was, it was just-

*THUMP, THUMP, THUMP* "Hey, get a grip and stop the waterworks. Get ready, I need you out there in ready and out there in a few minutes." The authoritative orders of his agent cut through Max's thoughts and tears like a sharp knife, bringing him quickly back to his senses.

"Ack, urm yes Ma'am!" Max squeaked back in return.

"Hey, no calling me Miss or Ma'am. It's just Karen from now on when your in uniform. Your a hero now, act like one." She scolded Max through the door, her words like daggers making Max recoil.

"Ahhh urm, yes M-, Karen!" He returned in a very unheroic and confused voice, likely giving his handler a minor headache.
Max returned back to the package in front of him now reminded of the clock. He took in a meditate breath in an attempt to calm himself even if it was just a tiny bit. Max knew he stood at a threshold now, that if he went head and donned this gear there would be no turning back to a life of safety - A thought that should have only worked to make him nervous but instead it just caused a small grin crossed his face at the thought that just as his handler said - He could be his own hero now!

With this thought in his head Max began to change, removing the Matchstick hoodie and the arm wraps he wore beneath his t-shirt, along with the rest of his civilian clothes and began to suit himself up. He zipped up the padded jumpsuit, squeezed into on his chestpeice, slipped on his shock gauntlet, then the crossbow gauntlet, and once they were all secured he slipped his feet into the power skates and fastened them up with the electronics assisting to snugly secure his foot in place. Each piece custom made for him, to both protect him and conceal his identity. He starred at himself in the mirror, hardly able to believe what he was saw staring back at him. It was like the body he head attached to wasn't his, no it had become the very thing he'd been dreaming and doodling for the last year at the back of his school notebook. A thought that only made his body tense up with fearful excitement. He pushed his mop of a hair to the side so he could put in his contacts, his eyes turning a distinctive yellow matching the HIVE colour scheme on his gear.
Taking one more baited breath, looking at his own reflection he reached across the desk and picked up the helmet, holding it in his hands for just few moments knowing this to be the last moment he could still say he wasn't Impulse. He slid the snugly fitting helmet over his head and fastened it like the rest of his gear. Max just starring with his heart pounding at the mirror. A wriggle of excitement coursed through his body as he performed a double fist pump to his reflection throwing a few jabs to the air.
Max.. No impulse was all ready to go!

ARC Press Conference - Backstage
A short time later Impulse flying both on a wave of excitement and also a sea of butterflies in his stomach made his way to the waiting area backstage to try and find Matchstick. He'd just spent the last few minutes speaking with his handler who went through the event plan, giving details and instructions about every little detail which to be honest only resulted in the wave of anxiety that had kept him away all night returning back, but now at least it was tempered by a newfound slight boost of confidence from being all geared up.

Silently Impulse weaved his way past the techs and towards the various Heroes who had all gotten themselves ready, gliding silently and as effortlessly (perhaps more) so than simply walking. There was a lot of Hero's here he didn't recognise one looking big, strong and kinda scary, another closer to his size but completely disinterested, an almost inhuman one dressed darkly and with a vicious looking tail, and finally a clearly older hero with a leather jacket dressed almost like a cat? He felt like there was another one but it escape his thoughts.

To his relief there were some here he recognised. The short-man in white must be Guardian Angel without a doubt, fitting the description he'd been given by his teammates to a T. He saw the great winged form of what had to be the same NightOwl who he had met and had saved him a year ago, but why was he on a lead. He didn't act like he was dangerous or an actual beast before? Though unreadable under his helmet Impulse had n confused expression just linger. Yet he pushed on as he continued to glide across the room silently coming to a stop on the dime just besides the last hero here: Matchstick the one person here he actually knew and had been helping train him. He tapped each boot against the floor nose first a few times as the R&D people had showed him and made him practice as suddenly the skate-frame flicked itself back locking upright at the heel of the boots grounding himself again.

Impulse's stomach began to sink standing this close to the stage. He was excited to find out what Matchstick thought of his shiny new gear, not ever having seen the full thing either and only pieces of the prototype. He was excited to be a Hero. He was excited to be surrounded by soo many other cool heroes. Yet at the same time despite his extra confidence, the gnawing doubts of not belonging here were already setting in, the feeling of being a kitten standing besides lions. (He might have frozen up in slight panic catching the cat hero's gaze just then) Moreover he could hear the talks and activity outside, and remembering all the people he saw as he skulked in earlier. Impulse desperately did his best to hide his fears, to stand upright and not let his body language give his nerves or his age away.

It's fine right? Yeah come on. I got this, I got this. You've skated in front of a crowd of like thirty of forty people at last summer's runs this.. Is just like that! Just more people, and with talking and live TV cameras and all your future co-workers standing besides you for the first time.
Awkwardly for him that did lead to Impulse forgetting to actually greet Matchstick or anyone else, being too focused on not freaking out to remember how words worked.
 
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"Come on!"

A tall, skinny man dressed in a dark button-up and slacks raced down a dark hallway, all but dragging the figure beside him. For every single stride of his, the smaller figure took three. "Okay, okay", Ophelia whispered between breaths. She was late, but according to her, it was for the best. Wolfgang, her PR agent and the man currently racing them both down the hallway, had arrived unexpectedly early. Ophelia was convinced that his knocks would break down her apartment door. They were so intense and so sudden that they startled Ophelia, causing her to flinch mid-sip of her morning coffee. Unfortunately, she had been touching up her special "Press Day" drawing of Sentinel at the time and coffee drenched the entire piece.

The two shared about thirty minutes of pure panic as Ophelia quickly attempted to redraw her previous creation. Eventually, Wolfgang had to usher Ophelia into the car, where she continued working. This was an admirable feat for her, as she usually had severe vertigo when reading/drawing in a moving vehicle. Even now, while Wolfgang guided her as they jogged towards the main backstage chamber, Ophelia continued working.

"Alright, times up," Wolfgang said, a winded exhale deflating his professional demeanor. "Please tell me you can work with what you have?"

"Yeah, yeah I think I can work with this," Ophelia said, forming a small but nervous smile. It definitely wasn't as detailed as her initial piece, but considering the circumstances, it was an impressive act of recovery.

"Thank God," Wolfgang sighed in relief, dragging a stressed hand down his face. "Okay, see that?" Wolfgang pointed towards a corner of the room hidden by a black curtain attached to a portable rack. "Behind that curtain is a chair, a cap, and a book. Make it look like you're reading. Once you get Sentinel going I'll move the curtain. We'll get you into the waiting room with the other recruits and then the conference will begin. Sound like a plan?"

"Sure does," said Ophelia, giving a brief thumbs up. Wolfgang nodded in reply, pointing his head towards the curtain. Ophelia moved towards the corner and moved around the curtain. A navy blue, thickly cushioned chair was shoved against the wall. Atop it was a book and a plain black cap. With her free hand, Ophelia placed the cap snugly upon her head and grabbed the book, giving the cover a once-over. "In Search of the Canary Tree, huh?" Ophelia sat down, settling herself in a position where her bent elbow rested against the arm of the chair. She read the book summary, making a mental note to take the book home and actually begin reading. Finally comfortable, Ophelia opened her sketchpad to the page on which she just finished drawing Sentinel. She ripped the page out, careful to follow the serrated line.

Now it was hitting her. The weeks prior had been filled with nonchalance and calm. Even yesterday, Ophelia felt unbothered. Now, her nerves were causing her stomach to roll. Ophelia stared at the drawing of her avatar. Sentinel, the confident, the courageous. She was nothing like her, but that was the point, wasn't it? To become someone she wasn't?

"Alright, let's do this Sentinel."

Cracking open the book and leaning her head down, Ophelia willed her creation into existence. The drawing vanished, taking the page with it.

In an instant, Sentinel stood before Ophelia's motionless body. She stretched, testing out her body and adjusting to the sudden height difference. "Alright Wolf, I'm here" Sentinel announced, stepping out from behind the curtain. She was dressed in a skin-tight, turtle-neck bodysuit. The colors were an abstract mixture of teal, orange, and white. A large, shimmering opal was centered in the middle of her chest, with small branches filled with the same opal material traveling across her suit. The suit itself seemed to have an opalescent effect as she moved beneath the lights. A thin chain headpiece sat around her buns and dripped down her forehead. The chains met at a triangular opal stone that sat as if embedded within her skin. Her hair was stark white today. Her lips were silvery-blue in color. Her mask resembled a white, sort of half halo that covered nothing but her eyes and stretched back past her ears.

"Good, good," Wolfgang smiled, quickly moving to grab the portable rack and wheel the curtain away, placing it against a wall. The absence of the curtain revealed Ophelia's form. She was wearing black pants and a black oversized hoodie with the auditorium's name embroidered on the right corner of the chest. Her disguise was that of an inconspicuous stagehand who was spending their break reading. Wolfgang would stand somewhere close by in case anyone were to try and approach Ophelia.

"Alright, the waiting room is that way. Remember, you are Sentinel. You are a modern-day barbarian. A guardian and protector of the public. You are a new recruit with no prior experience because you are "that good." Go get 'em" Wolfgang grabbed Sentinel's shoulder, no longer having to reach down to interact with his assigned Hero. "Thanks, Wolf. See you soon," Sentinel smiled, giving her PR rep's arm a slap before heading towards the waiting room. Wolfgang frowned, rubbing his newly sore arm as Sentinel walked away.

Sentinel entered the waiting room. Yeah, she was definitely late. The room was already full of other hero recruits, some less human than the others. 'Damn, these guys are cool!' Sentinel thought as she glanced around the room. She was most interested in the amazingly tall, scaley, amazonian woman and the muzzled beast. 'Well, that's not very cool' Sentinel mentally corrected, momentarily glaring at NightOwl's handler. The room was particularly silent, but these individuals were her new teammates. It would do her well to get to know them. So, she approached NightOwl and his handler, a friendly smile plastered across her face.

"Hello," Sentinel said, more focused on NightOwl than the man holding his lead. "Are you sure they need the giant muzzle? They seem to be behaving amazingly in a room full of strangers," finally Sentinel looked at the Handler, addressing him about NightOwl as if she were speaking about some small, unassuming puppy. She extended the back of her hand towards NightOwl's caged nose, a motion she did to all new animals before approaching or touching them. "Sorry, I know it's not my place. I just have a soft heart when it comes to creatures. At least they are very comfortable with the muzzle, right?"

Sentinel turned once again to face NightOwl. "Hi," she said softly. "You are very beautiful."
 
Silence hung in the air like a blanket over fire—stuffy and suffocating. Peter could practically smell an awkward smoke with his every word to the other new hero, growing thicker even in quiet.

He would've made an attempt to continue the conversation (if it could be called that), but a familiar face of fangs and feathers stole the slim amount of attention he'd pointed to it, so he turned to shoot a grin in Six's direction instead... a smile which couldn't really be seen beneath his mask. Something Peter was blissfully unaware of. Maybe that was for the best, though, because it dropped into a scowl the instant he noticed the gleaming metal muzzle.

"Are you sure they need the giant muzzle?"

"He doesn't," Peter snapped, not caring if the question was directed toward him or not. His eyes were still glued to the muzzle—sliding down the halter-lead and hovering on the face of the person holding it for only a moment before flicking back to Six's face. "Why've they got you in one?" Though the frown was somewhat hidden behind the red mesh of his mask, it still bled into his eyes enough to be seen. Two eyebrows wrinkling at the sides as they pushed together into a squinted glare at the man's hands.

A familiar heat flowed through Peter's fingers, but he shoved it down with a (rushed) mental count to ten—that's what Buzz always told him to do when he got mad. The first time he mentioned it, Peter had called it stupid, and yet—annoyingly—it still worked (he ignored the quiet part of him that wished Buzz was here telling him to do it right now).

Occupied as he was with that, he took little notice of the other heroes in the room. Not the one still talking to Six, not the newly-kitted Impulse, and certainly not the cat-hero (who was now fixing the dragon-lady with a blank stare).

Gray's foot finally stopped tapping (seemingly for good this time). "Can you... what?" He shifted in his seat, wondering—for a moment—if he'd misheard. Whatever the case, his half-mumbled answer plowed ahead anyway. "I— well, we're on in a few minutes, I'm not sure you have time to eat. But if you can finish before stage-call, then don't think anyone will mind."
 
Jet's ears perked as a new hero slipped into the room, blue adorning their armor. From the cloudy, arrhythmic heartbeat, Jet assumed it was from that kid he'd helped Buzz—"Hey, Enbee, I have something for you."—rescue. Max Kelly. Enhanced. Jet's plating twitched, and he rumbled in discontent, ears flattening. Why was he here?

His thoughts were interrupted by more footsteps. His head snapped around before he could stop it, plating rising uncomfortably. He barely paid attention to what they were saying, eyes focused on the left side of the figure's chest. He couldn't hear it. There was no heartbeat.

Granted, he was one to talk, considering he had none, either, but it didn't sound like they were breathing properly, either. His tail twitched, flicking back and forth in restless concern. He had no idea why they put the back of their hand out to him; his nostrils were on the side of his face, and not the front, but he sniffed if just for appearances. Yup. Smelled like nothing, just like pretty much everything else.

"Are you sure they need the giant muzzle?"

Jet had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Of course he didn't, but it was for "the public's peace of mind". It was worse showing the public that he was a big enough concern to put a muzzle on, in the first place, but he apparently had no weight in that conversation.

Jet pushed himself up as Peter snapped out a response, turning his head toward him and humming. He emphasized a breath, despite his body not being made to breathe like that. In, out. Seven, ten.

All he could offer Peter was one of his "grimaces", plating raised, mandibles twitching, and ears back.

"Hi. You are very beautiful."

Abruptly, Jet was very glad he didn't have blood, or his cover would have been blown quite quickly.

Instead, he made a show of cocking his head up and to the side, one ear perking forward in a show of curiosity that he really didn't have.

"Don't talk to it, it's a waste of time," Jeremy said with a roll of his eyes.

Jet resisted the very seraphim-like urge to knead at the leg he was currently within reach of with his currently-sharpened claws. Instead, he swiveled his head backwards (much like an owl), and leveled him with a Look—ears flattening to level with his back plating—chuffing.

---

Flashbang didn't move an inch, her back ramrod straight and painfully curved in the opposite direction it wanted to curve.

Her tail didn't so much as twitch.
 
Wrath's face lit up in delight. Despite the momentary dimming of his irritation, there was still more anger here than she'd had since she was woken. It was also delicious as she quickly drained it all.

"Thank you for the meal. It was delectamenti. Might I learn your name? I am Sin Wrath."

A sudden spike in indignant-righteous-anger had her glancing around in concern before she spotted a dragon-adjacent on a leash attached to a muzzle. From the way they responded to the people talking about and to them, they were intelligent and trying to hide it. Well, she could aid a fellow sentient-but-hiding-it.

Thus determined, she strode over to the handler with a moderately intimidating expression.

"If this group is for the 'public good,' surely you would not be involving someone dangerous. The muzzle and leash is nimium. Even war wolves did not require leashes," she said while openly contemplating shredding the leash. Sending one last glare at the handler, she knelt down to speak to the dragon-adjacent where no one would hear.

"I don't know why you are pretending to be...what is the word? Non intelligentes...not intelligent. But I understand. When you are ready, might I learn your name? For now, one blink for he/him or two blinks for she/her," Wrath whispered, smiling reassuringly.
 
Sentinel smiled warmly as the mysterious creature before her tilted its head in response to her compliment. Its mannerisms were so foreign and intriguing, and it was like nothing she had ever witnessed before. She was completely smitten with the wonderful beast. She decided at that moment that it was her favorite, and she would die for it.

"Don't talk to it, it's a waste of time"

Sentinel's smile faltered and her extended arm dropped. She stood slowly, straightening herself out before turning her head to face the creature's handler, her upper lip curled in visible disgust. He was lucky Ophelia hadn't given Sentinel laser vision today, or her glowering expression and fierce gaze would've bore cauterized holes right through his miserable, ugly face. She was about to bark a snarky reply of her own when the "Amazon" as Ophelia had so kindly nicknamed her, approached them. Her expression was harsh and unreadable. Both wonderstruck and intimidated, Sentinel took a step back to allow the woman access to the creature and its handler. After the "Amazon's" statement to the handler, she bent down, revealing Sentinel who had completely disappeared behind her after she stepped between her and the handler. Sentinel wore a smug expression, with her eyebrows raised and her lips formed into a smirk that seemed to favor the right side of her face, forming a distinct dimple between her mouth and tightened cheek. She stared at the handler with her arms confidently crossed.

"War wolves," Sentinel parroted, giving a slight nod to punctuate her words "no leashes." She was tempted to add "you're a waste of time" in reply to his earlier remark but decided that would be pushing it a bit too far. At least for now.

With that, Sentinel decided the next best course of action would be to kneel with the giant woman. It was either that or continue to maintain awkward eye contact with the handler and risk devaluing their combined efforts to diminish him. She managed to catch the very end of what the woman was saying, "-two blinks for she/her." Sentinel looked expectantly at the creature, fully ready for an answer despite having no prior knowledge of it having advanced thought and mental capabilities. As if giving encouragement, Sentinel blinked twice at it.
 
Well, this was already going swimmingly. He wondered how much confidence they'd be able to instill in the public if even a whisper of the tension flying behind closed doors got out. Come to think of it, that idea would probably sell. Big Brother: New Heroes Edition. He uncrossed his legs and stretched. These chairs were damn uncomfortable, but he supposed that that was part of their charm. It was that sort-of administratory chique, typically reserved for after church coffee hours and high school gymnasiums emptied out for blood drives. Now that he was pondering the subject, the vibe of this venue matched perfectly with the one he'd thought up in his own head. What was there to make of that? Nothing, probably. He wasn't clairvoyant—at least, not to his knowledge—and even if he was, it didn't matter, anyway.

Unsurprisingly, the little scuffle-that-really-wasn't, more of a mild, say, ruffling of feathers, was due in part to the mishaps and mismanagement of the Handlers. God, where did ARC get these clowns? One would hardly seem more bureaucratic, banality-of-evil-esque, if they were all plastered in grey tone business shouts and shouted, 'BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING' at every available juncture. Huh? Two Big Brother mentions? That had to mean something, if only that anything was just the same as something, or nothing, if you squinted and cocked your head sideways looking at it. In any event.

"Oi! What's the muzzle going to do if he decides to lop your head off with those big, sharp claws?!"

Haine shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth to be heard, like a fan calling out to his favorite sportsball player on the field. He was by now leaned obnoxiously far back in his seat, apparently attempting to ascertain the limits of endurance with regard to both the chair and his spine. A fair question, he reckoned. No? Anyone? Bueller? His words were laced with smarm, and if it wasn't obvious that he was taking his own potshot at the Handler—much like the big lady, and the even bigger lady had done before him—then the look of absolute, impish delight on his face would erase any shadow of doubt.

Lastly... He. That little flameboy had called the beast a he, and so too had Haine. Whoops. Neve.
 
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(Given permission from Tapfic to skip him)
ARC Press Conference - Backstage
Oh fudge, oh fudge, oh fudge, oh freaking fuuuuudge! This was not a great start with a few minutes till they were all due out on stage and we were inches from having a fight backstage against an ARC employee. What should I do, what should I do..!?! Come on Max focus, pull it together... For the cat-hero who he was close to or any others actually keeping an eye on the blue-clad hero, Impulse was just stuck stood in place here his helmet darting from one raised and shouted voice to another clearly looking skittish and hesitant, ironic given his speedster guise.

It's not like Max knew why NightOwl was all muzzled like this. No that wasn't true, he had a pretty good guess... Images flashing back into his mind from just year a year prior meeting him as a civilian. His younger self running away terrified from what he thought at first was some terrifying evil-beast, an otherworldly maw that extended unlike any other creature he knew. ARC likely didn't want to risk the public being scared of that in particular - treating him like a team-animal on a leash, it was marketing and it was to hopefully be more reassuring.
Did that make Max feel any better seeing one of his rescuers like that? No. He thought NightOwl was beautiful now, the feathers, markings, wings, tail even his maw.

Yet then the words of venom and anger all just keep piling on in the room, followed by mockery from the other blue-clad hero who'd previously been ignoring everyone. We were all suppose to be heroes about to present ourselves to the city. Dang it. He had to step up, he knew it. He had to try and keep things in control here, or atleast help cool Peter down. Again his nerves obvious to anyone actually paying him any attention. Max attempted to steel himself here, supressing those nerves even if just for a minute and putting up a fake guise of confidence. *Deep breath*

Impulse walked over besides the smouldering Matchstick, knowing what could happen with him riled up - pressing a button on his gauntlet before placing the hand firmly on his friends shoulder. Using the Hive-only communication channel he just activated he whispered into his helmet's microphone. [HIVE: "Match, calm down, please count to ten."] He wasn't Buzz but he hoped his friend would respond hearing his voice request the same.

After a brief pause standing besides and nodding to Match he then looked over everyone, their reflections on bouncing off his blue visor back at them along with slight glimmers of his own metallic-eyes beneath as he summoned every ounce of confidence the Impulse costume gave him. He spoke aloud with his voice deepened and autotuned by his helmet to sound more like an adult - trying his best to present himself to the room. "Everybody just calm down. I a-agree with all of you having a muzzle and leash on one of our allies is disgusting and unnessiasry. They wouldn't have sent them to such an important press event if they thought there was even a remote risk to the reporters...." He began, every word sounding calm and collected, trying to word himself like he'd practiced in the mirror every day up this week leading up to this event, attempting to sound older and more mature than he was - over some frazzled teen.
"E-Even so, us shouting at some employee just told to hold the leash four minutes from going on stage isn't going to change anything. This'll be a decision by someone higher up. Even if we break it or force this man to remove them now, it wont fix this. They just want to avoid scaring the press, avoid them running a story like 'Uncontrolled beast replaces cities finest'. It's dumb I agree, I think having him on a leash is a scarier image but that's not our call. If we want to fix this, it'll need to be after we've gone on stage." Impulse continued trying his best to be a rational voice in the discourse, pulling off a fairly decently confident-sounding rhetoric and not even stumbling on more than like two words despite the sheer level of internally screaming doing so. His body language during all this did slightly betraying his false-confidence, with his hands shaking as he tried to motion, and Impulse actively fighting the urge to buckle his knees here under the social pressure of the room.

Meanwhile internally to Max every word sank hard into his stomach during all this; even though he wasn't using his power and his monitor remained steady he swore his heart skipped some beats as he spoke up here. Like the freak are you doing Max!? This was your first time interacting professionally with heroes who weren't Buzz or Match at all, and it was the first time anybody had ever seen Impulse and now he's trying to talk down a whole room of heroes!?! This was way beyond Max's comfort zone here, never speaking like this in class or with friends instead normally hiding in the backdrop waiting for arguments to blow over.
 
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When Peter was younger, he learned very quickly that fire was meant to be hidden. Tucked away and contained like a kid throwing a fit was meant to be put on timeout. But when he tried to shove fire away, it always put up a fight. When he got the tiniest bit too frustrated with his spelling homework. When he made a teacher mad enough to yell that extra decibel too loud. When he got told that he was getting 'relocated' again, just when he thought he'd gotten it right this time.

Then Peter grew. And he learned something else. With practice—sleepless nights spent in the company of a candlelight sized flame that cast shifting orange shadows across the walls—fire could be tamed and, over hundreds of hours of meticulously forcing each tongue of flame calm, it had been. He rarely flared up nowadays... but the stacking wood of the past week was dry with anger (at who, Peter still wasn't quite sure).

"Don't talk to it, it's a waste of time"

Dry wood and a sparking comment never ended well.

"And you're a waste of space," He spat, flicker of heat springing to life in his hand. Peter would've said more—the dickhead certainly deserved more insult than that—but a weight on his shoulder and Max's voice in his ear dragged him back from the wildfire. Right. Counting to ten, that's what he was supposed to be doing. The heat built a bit at the thought (annoyance?), but Peter pushed his mind to it anyway.

His hand snapped into a fist, suffocating the glimmering flame within. One. Two. A stinging pain prickled across his fingertips. Three. Four. Peter glanced at the burn through the corner of his eye; it was minor. Five. Six. He took a slow breath that released itself in a long, winding huff. Seven. Eight. Another glare, tinted red through his visor, slipped across the handler even as Max spoke. Nine—

"And that's why I am pleased to introduce, New York's newest heroes!"

~~~

Gray—Nine, he should say; all it took was one careless slip-up and he'd be revealing a hell of a lot more than he'd like to ARC's lapdogs (a label that, he realized, now unfortunately applied to him as well)—felt his impatience draining away as he spoke with Sin Wrath, leaving no barrier to hold back his growing dread (a feeling that certainly wasn't helped by the 'meal' that she thanked him for—Nine had seen enough of ARC's... strangeness to wonder if he'd just given more than he had thought).

Of course, the tension in the room wasn't doing him any favors either (any hope he had for easily working with his new 'teammates' was rapidly dissolving). He barely managed to get out a quick "Nine," to answer Wrath's question before she threw her own hat in the ring of whatever argument the others had gotten into.

Though he didn't say it out loud, Gray had to agree with the majority—if ARC expected anyone to be a hero, they shouldn't have to muzzle them to convince them of their trustworthiness—but he was hardly in any place to take it up with them. Muzzle, handler, tracker. Whatever leash they used wouldn't be removed simply because of complaints from yet another person at the wrong end of one, so Nine kept his silence.

His eyes trailed down the wall, landing on the clock just as the announcer cued them from outside with what Gray could only guess was a poor attempt at a pun. The PR agent he'd been assigned had mentioned yesterday that he had little ability to enter with 'pizzazz' (their words, not his) and therefore needed to follow behind someone who did (namely the eye-burningly red hero he'd first seen enter the room), which gave him ample time to watch as Matchstick's head snapped toward the stage.

The kid wasted no time. In an instant, there was a ball of flame in his hand that crackled and popped as he strode past the curtain with a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes just enough that it seemed too much to be genuine. Gray craned his neck forward to watch him step onto the raised cement dais that served as their theatre (why ARC picked an outdoor venue in the middle of summer was beyond him)—getting to his feet while Match began his performance with a flick of the wrist that sent the fireball sailing into the air. It shook as it flew, shifting and changing. Two wings sprouted from it's sides, and a beaked face through the front, creating the illusion of a bird-like creature (phoenix, Gray guessed) that swooped in a graceful circle over the crowd that put its swirling tail-flames on full display. Then, in one single, fluid movement, it burst into a shower of sparks that burnt out seconds above the ground.

Cheers erupted from the crowd, earning an exaggerated wink from Match as he strode toward the further end of the line of microphone stands. Gray filed in discreetly behind him.
 
See, this is why Jet never became a hero in the first place. It was either fully-feral, outing himself as a Kadoshi, or nothing, and he knew his electrokinesis wasn't as good as it could be, so really, that gave him two bad options.

So, no, he'd never intended to take being an informant any further than he already had; running quiet infiltrations in the background was what he was good at. Not PR.

And, to make matters worse, someone else with no heartbeat stepped in front of him, sounding heavy in form. His ears twitched as he looked between the two, who seemed to only be taking in air to speak. Back and forth, feathers raising in unrest.

They both spoke more to Jeremy before crouching down, and, at that point, Jet, feeling more than a little unsettled, and a tiny bit cornered at the question (he needed to blink, after all, meaning it would end up convincing them that he required binary pronouns, anyway. He did not. Well, NightOwl didn't.

So, with a brief, uncomfortable hiss, he pushed himself to his hind legs (letting his tail drag on the ground) moved three steps away, then settled back down, turning his head fully backward and stuffing his snout into the feathers of his plating. The muzzle kinda chafed, but he ignored it like he was ignoring the rising tension in the room.

Not even a minute later, they were called to the stage. Matchstick went first, then the cat. Jeremy tugged on his lead all-but dragging him to follow. His tails flicked uncomfortably. He didn't like stages, not really. Dance stages were fine, they had a support he could use; music to get lost in, where no one could find him.

This was not dancing.

There was no hiding.

"Introducing Tamer; the animal whispering hero!"

An announcer. He didn't like those, either. They were usually annoying, probing the crowd for reactions with plausible lies.

Jet made his steps louder purposefully, massive hindclaws scraping (without doing any real damage) on the wood. It occurred to him that he wasn't familiar with the "signal" Jeremy was supposed to be giving him, but upon the lead tugging sharply—twice—he cracked his mouth open, an airy hiss seeping into the air and flared his wings.

He wasn't used to making loud sounds as a Seraphim... but if asked to roar, roar he could.

It was a roar that built and bubbled in his throat, starting with a deep rumble before peaking into a sharp, overly loud snarl that took the echoing, open space and amplified it, the sound of the crowd almost drowned out by the lengthy sound.

Another sharp tug had him abruptly snapping his already-beginning-to-hurt mouth shut, an emptiness left from the previously-oppressive sound until the person announcing the event took it upon themself to introduce him.

"And his well-trained companion, Night Owl!"

He almost expected "Six".

A shame; he'd liked that name.
 
Lan hadn't planned on paying much attention to the other heroes. He wasn't here to make friends. He wouldn't even be here that long anyways but- HOLY SHIT what was that?
Bird? Dragon? ...Dog???

His left eye twitched slightly. It wasn't even just the freaky bird-dog-thing, one of the heroes must have been at least seven god damn feet tall- and two of them had tails.
Lan wasn't all too sure he wanted to find out what genetic/magical fuckery was going on with their situations, but he really couldn't help but stare as they all clustered together. He guessed they were trying to pet the bird-thing ( That did not explain why one of them was sparking, but oh well ) ? Honestly he would too if he had a few ounces less pride in him. As it stood, he did not.

Lan caught himself staring and wrinkled his nose, turning his head to face the curtain and deliberately ignoring the others as he waited for their que. Best to get this meaningless clown-show along the road before any embarrassing whipped cream pies were thrown. At Lan specifically of course. He didn't give a shit about the others.

"And that's why I am pleased to introduce, New York's newest heroes!"

Ah. Yeah. There we go. The light turned green and the metaphorical tiny cars began to roll.
First Sparky, then a. uh. cat themed hero ( If they couldn't talk to cats Lan was going to be highly disappointed ) , then Birdy and the Glorified Dog Walker.

Lan followed after the pair. His arms were crossed, and his brows knit in frustration.

" A kind hearted healer, and son of the One and only Divine knight, Guardian Angel! "

Oh, Divine Knight- that was a name Lan hadn't heard in. Like. A week. Since he last went grocery shopping at least.
You think it would be considered a bit fucked up to put a dead hero on cereal boxes promising "heart health" and "long livity" coupled with "six scoops of marshmallows " but to hell with it. Nothing is too low for Sunny Puffs, the bastards.

Lan shot a glare towards the speakers in the distance as they called his description. So that was the brand Arc was going for? He should have guessed, they tried the opposite with Karma after all. Kind of hard to pull off dark and mysterious when he fuckin tripped onstage at his introduction, though. Kim proceeded to cry about it at Lan's apartment for half an hour.

...Thinking about this shit was pissing him off, and paradoxically calming him down. He had to focus, just get through the basics; find Kim.

---

Niki did in fact, arrive late; and no one, in fact- seemed to care.

A girl dressed in white and gold stepped onto the stage-

" A kind hearted healer, and son of the One and only Divine knight, Guardian Angel! "

Oh, shit; a boy dressed in white and gold stepped onto the stage, Niki internally apologized. ( Maybe the guy could read minds, and that's why he looked so fuckin peeved at the moment ).Niki knew the announcer literally just said "healer" but hey, heroes are freaky like that some times.

" 'scuse me, comin through, yada yada you guy'sv seen movies y'know what's goin on, " Nikias spoke as he slipped through the crowd. Really, it was just reflexive yapping, considering his glasses were off and no one acknowledged his existence for more than a fraction of a moment.

" -the amnesia inducing newbie, No- No Name? "

Damn, twas his turn already huh? Well too bad for them Niki had yet to make it to the stage amongst the tightly packed crowd of hero fanatics ( some of whom could give Nya a run for her money, sheesh )

" I...Is he up there? Is this the power happening like, right now? " someone muttered in the crowd.

" Woah.. I don't even remember seeing them at all, freaky ,"

Niki tried and failed to restrain a giggle as he finally made it to the stage, opting to climb straight up rather than take the long way round. An action that had him the slightest bit winded, as he had not considered the fact he was currently about as athletic as a ritz cracker before deciding he could climb it.

Nikias did make it on stage, take a few breaths, and lay down on his side. One hand propped up his head as he placed the dark shades back on his face.

" Tada! " he half called- half wheezed ( he should not have let Arinya convince him to run. Horrible mistake. )

Some hesitant, and frankly confused claps sounded through the crowd for a moment, before Niki took the glasses back off, Lay down on his back, and started on his bag of sour gummies.
 
Sentinel watched as the large creature moved away from her and her amazonian gal-pal with a threatening hiss, settling down once again a few feet away. Finding the act quite comical, Sentinel stifled a chuckle. It was clear the creature was uncomfortable, but that only meant that she'd have to spend more time trying to gain its trust. It was a challenge she readily accepted.

She rose to her feet, turning her attention towards the small, rollerblade clade hero as the show officially began. A few heroes made their way on stage, including her creature friend whom she learned was called NightOwl. She approached the fully-armored hero, resting a gentle hand on his -she assumed it was a him- shoulder. It was clear he was nervous. Not even a voice changer could disguise his wavering tone and occasional stutter. "Hey bud, no worries. We're all cool, just gauging each other".

"The newly recruited unwavering spirit, Sentinel!"

"That's my cue," Sentinel smiled, giving his shoulder a light squeeze, half as an attempt at reassurance and comfort, and half due to a surge of adrenaline that manifested the physical response of rapidly tensing muscles.

Ophelia knew first impressions were important, which is why she decided to stray from the usual abilities she gave her avatar. She knew she'd be competing against the other heroes for the audience's eyes. The week prior was particularly stressful as Ophelia attempted to work out the tweaks of this new ability. She spent hours studying previous heroes and villains with similar powers, sketching out her ideas, and stress napping when she failed to create the perfect design.

She envied other heroes. They could just waltz on stage, do something flashy, and really wow the crowd. In situations like this, Ophelia's powers became very meta. She'd have to use her powers to have her power use their powers. Situations like this made Ophelia wish she was the one standing on the stage. She could do so much more as herself than she could as Sentinel.

Alas, Sentinel emerged from the heavy curtains, the stage lights beaming down on her like dozens of mini suns. She flashed an award-winning grin at the audience as she made her way center-stage. She hesitated, taking a brief moment to take everything in. This was all so new to her. How she managed to get here was beyond her. She never wanted to see or speak to her family again but she wished she could show them how far she made it without them. They'd probably cry. Oh, she'd love to watch them cry.

A second later, Sentinel's moment of reflection had ended.

Bracing her arms outwards, Sentinel's body began to grow and extend in abnormal and unnatural ways. Her fleshy skin pulled and stretched until it was completely dissolved away, revealing pale blue crystal.

The space where Sentinel once stood was now occupied by the hulking mass of a twelve-foot-tall crystal golem. The entirety of its form was made of the same pale blue and white opalescent crystal that had adorned her costume.

Hindsight is always 20/20, and it was clear that there had been some foreshadowing involved with Sentinel’s choice of apparel

The golem had a large but fairly short (at least in comparison with its legs) upper body with its maximum width at the shoulders, which seemed to be a few feet in length. The arms were large and bulky, stretching so greatly in length that they almost matched the height of golem entirely. The hands were broad and from the palms protruded finely tipped fingers, each wide enough for an average adult human hand to struggle to fully grip. Extending from atop the right hand and almost to the shoulder was a plating, a few inches wide, that seemed to act as a shield for the arm.

A colony of crystal stalagmites protruded out of her shoulders and back, varying greatly in size. While some of the larger crystals were a foot or so long and several inches wide, smaller structures could be only an inch or two in length and a few centimeters wide.

Instead of resting atop a neck, the head of the golem, which was by comparison very small and contained little to no facial features besides four distinctly glowing eyes and a few sharp angles, was nestled into a cavity directly above the chest. A curved, triple plated structured hooded the head and sat at the same level as the shoulders.

In greater detail, the golem’s head was entirely turtle-like. In fact, the best comparison would be to a semi-retracted turtlehead. Similars could be found in the strange, dome-shaped head and unmoving folds of a solid crystal neck-like structure, which was just barely visible beneath the plating hood. Four eyes, each taking shape as horizontal slits, glowed a gentle white.

The golem’s waist was significantly less in width than the build upper body. The blue of the crystal body reverse ombrés, darkening the most in this region. The legs are long and large. Despite the three square toes on each foot, the “foot” itself resembles more of a circular stump.

The unexpected transformation was enough to send a hush through the crowd.

The lights that once blinded her refracted off of her crystalline body in a glorious array of colors. To really turn up the charm, Sentinel snapped a piece of crystal off of her back, pulverized it between her hands, and tossed the dust at the ceiling. A shower of sparkling sediment glittered and glistened, dancing around like lightning bugs before conveniently disappearing from existence before touching the crowd.

A roar of applause tore through the auditorium. Sentinel bowed awkwardly, her proportions not quite suitable for such a movement, before returning back to her normal form, still mid-bow. She settled into her designated spot as the rest of the heroes were introduced.
 
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ARC Press Conference - On Stage
Impulse had no way to know how his words would be taken by everyone in the room. Yet as everyone just seemed to stop and turn to the stage he just let out a sigh almost deflating a where he stood as the anxiety just bubbled away off into nothing. He couldn't help but give a worried look to Matchstick as he began to walk off, eyeing his fellow heroes hands looking for signs of burns that they'd need to treat later. Impulse took in a deep breath as the announcers words went out one by one calling each hero to stage. Nobody beyond the hero he'd soon learn was called Sentinel even commenting or reply to his speech.

"Hey bud, no worries. We're all cool, just gauging each other" That did not serve to put Impulse at ease. Just gauging eachother..? Did he just overreact to something? Misread the room..? No like they seemed like they were genuinely gonna start something here about NightOwl's muzzle, weren't they? Or were they just testing each other..? Impulse getting lost in his own thoughts and actually missing as the announcer first calls out his name.

"Now introducing Impulse, shockingly fast you wont be able to keep track of this speedster."

It's only after he gets a brief buzz in his ear from Karen does he click back to reality. He pushed the thoughts out of his head before dashing out onto stage deploying the rollerblades from his boots in a fluid motion making a quick dash down the length of the stage and skidding to a stop beyond Match and the last microphone and giving a huge wave to the audience, the flashlight on his helmet turned on making a slight refraction off the few crystal-like effects still in the air.
Impulse knew he couldn't stop a giant phoenix in the sky, he couldn't become a giant but that was fine.
Impulse then took a single step to the side and positioned himself as if about to skate back across the stage before vanishing, leaving nothing but a blue-afterimage behind. Flickering and appearing on the other side of the stage with minor sparks of electrical static dancing along his armour for a few moments on arrival as he continued to wave just now to the other on the other side of the audience. Max's chest ached a little, a slight dip on his vital monitor but it was pretty insignificant, abet still a little uncomfortable.
Impulse then just signed off from his waving, and with what limited flashiness he had doing a standing backflip on his skates freezing time just before landing so to all perception he'd just reappeared in front of his microphone as if he just landed the same flip as before but now a distance away, sparking again for a few moments besides his fellow heroes. He hoped he'd made a sufficient entrance as he let the slight flutter in his chest settle, taking a look down the row at the other Heroes again eyeing Matchstick again nervously. Max remarkably despite his nerves was holding up fairly well with the crowd and cameras though he didn't like being here but he knew what to do, he'd practiced in the mirror and in recordings on his own phone during the week. He just had to keep it together now just like during the summer contests, yeah there were cameras and crowds then, yeah this was fine... Okay he was nervous but it didn't show too badly, not yet.
 
The quiet black bubble of being allowed to zone out popped as soon as the first announcement was made. If it were possible, Flash stood straighter, her tail pausing in its idle swaying. Showtime.

Flash stepped onto the stage right after "Impulse", as he was called. According to Handler, she needed to put on a show, something she was well-versed in doing if just for posterity. So, with a light step that had her landing on the ball of their foot, she pushed off the wall of the waiting room. The faceplate covering her mouth slid back, and she exhaled the residual body-heat in preparation, a cloud of barely-visible steam filtering out between sharpened teeth.

Flashbang jogged onto the stage, light bouncing off the reflective lenses covering her eyes and the cameras of her analysis AI.

"Reintroducing our experienced windwalker; FLASHBANG!"

Why they felt the need to scream her name was beyond the hero, but it always signaled the use of her powers, so, with a sharp, birdlike whistle, she stepped off the stage.

Considering the platform's height, she only fell for a fraction of a second to dip into the body-heat of the audience before vanishing in less of the time it took for someone to blink, ending up a couple of feet above the audience, the stage partially frozen where she had fallen.

One.

In the brief moment she appeared and didn't fall due to such things as gravity, Flashbang took a single step, almost appearing to flicker by Blinking once more to follow the motion of her walking.

Two.

Three.

Her breath came out a cloud of frozen fog as the air around her struggled to keep up with her use of the heat. One Blink was fine.

Four had her fingers locking up an their tail burning.

And the fifth that they used to appear back on stage hurt.

The frozen air had the happy accident of showering the crowd with a fine powder of frozen water, though, the flakes sparkling for a few moments before melting as they hit heat once more.

Windwalker... a title for some teleportation-based heroes, based off an old hero of the same name. Just a stage epithet to Flash... she knew that if she used that little trick in battle that she'd lose her limbs, and maybe functionality as a whole.

Flash bowed, tail rattling its armour behind her.

And with that, she fell into line beside the other heroes.

Beside the other weapons.
 
The dragon-adjacent might not wish to reveal his preferred pronouns, but those who apparently already at least knew of him used he/him so Wrath figured that was a safe bet. Unfortunately, she would not be able to provoke the handler anymore as the one she decided to call Placator sought to prevent potential violence.

As each hero took to the stage, Wrath began to understand what this 'Press Conference' was really about. This was a presentation of warriors in a gladiatorial arena except the whole city was the colosseum...maybe a parade of soldiers as they marched to battle would be more accurate? Either way, she now understood the intent behind this circus.

"The Amazonian Powerhouse, Wrath!"

Wrath strode towards the line-up confidently, waving at the crowd as she used to in the arena with a bloodthirsty smirk. She was aware that she wasn't showy enough to please the crowd as the others were, but there was nothing she could do about it with the seals carved into her body. She considered punching a crater into the stage, but her handler was very clear about property damage; don't do it.

At least she got to learn Sentinel and NightOwl's names, she thought as she settled in next to the Tailed One.
 
Gray leaned idly with a palm flat against his pedestal, resigning himself to watch the rest of the heroes' entrances with muted annoyance. What good did revealing their powers to the world do? Sure, they'd have to forfeit the element of surprise eventually, but remaining unknown for as long as possible had its uses, however temporary. He held back a sigh. At least there was one benefit to all the frivolity; he got a chance to gauge his new coworkers.

Or he would've if the words 'Divine Knight' hadn't come out of the announcer's mouth.

Though his expression couldn't be seen through the helmet, the way Gray suddenly stood straighter betrayed his tension. He hadn't heard that name since it flashed across the television screen at his old job while a detached news anchor rambled about his death. This was his son? He seemed so... small. How old was he? It had happened fifteen... sixteen years ago; was this kid sixteen?!

"Take a good look, New York!" His thoughts were interrupted by the announcer's booming voice just as they began to race. "This is some of our finest!" What they were the finest of exactly, he didn't elaborate, but the statement prompted a roaring cheer from the crowd. A few cameras flickered among them, (thankfully) tinted dark in Gray's vision by his helmet. Not that he took much notice of it, being too busy throwing off the last threads of his nervous mind—he could worry about it later. For the moment, the only danger was ARC's potential ire at a poorly-performed interview.

"Now, I know you're all absolutely bursting with questions, so it's about time we allowed our reporters to ask away!"

Reporters raised their hands and microphones, half of them speaking over one another. Notably, the announcer was the one picking and choosing among them rather than the heroes themselves (ARC wouldn't want them to land on someone who had an actually important question like "Are you putting a fucking highschooler into life-threatening danger?" he was sure).

"Olivia Bergeson, Badger News: There are some new faces here that haven't yet been seen in action. How are we to be sure they're prepared for a hero's duties?"

A miniscule frown tugged at the end of the announcer's mouth (too risky a question for his tastes, Gray assumed), but he turned to let the heroes answer anyway.

"I've been working with ARC for around four years, now," Gray answered. Technically not a lie considering he got paid for it (though, he would hardly count being a research subject in exchange for parole as 'working with'). "Unfortunately, most of these jobs aren't available for public record, but I can assure you, I am fully qualified for this position." Once again, a technicality (the jobs really had nothing to do with his preparedness) and yet a truth nonetheless.

"Cooper Esquivel, DC Post: Some of the new heroes haven't yet performed power displays. This is a question to all of them; what exactly are your abilities?"

His PR agent had gone over this earlier, apparently 'dying' wasn't a proper answer.

Gray crossed his arms over one another and leaned forward on the pedestal -playing up the whole 'aloof persona' (the PR department's words, not his) for the cameras. "Only one way to find out." Hopefully that was a good enough answer for ARC (the following lecture if it wasn't was sure to be annoying as hell).

~~~

"Candor, General Eyes News: It was mentioned earlier that investigations for the missing heroes were underway. Are we to assume that, because replacements are being introduced, that they will not be returning soon?"

Oh. That question.

Peter had been dreading that question. It was inevitable, but that didn't make answering it any easier.

He piped up before anyone else could, just as Claws had told him to do once the question came up. His grin broadened (another one of Claws' lessons, "Smile. They can't see your mouth, but it shows in your eyes") as he forced a teasing tone to his voice (which, even through the microphone, sounded horribly small to Peter). "What, don't like me?" ("Make a joke, it helps ease the tension") "Kidding, kidding." A chuckle, just as fake as the smile, wove its way out of his mouth.

Now he turned serious ("Lower your voice, it makes it seem more sincere"). "But... uh, as Buzz's... well, we always say apprentice, but I think of them more as a sibling," Though the words came out smooth, they burned on the way up. He was the one who said it, and yet it somehow felt like a violation of privacy. As if he had told a secret to a gossip column for a little 'sympathy' (as Claws called it). "I can assure you," Peter forced himself to continue, "That we're dedicating any resources that can possibly be spared to this investigation, and we're expecting a swift and safe return." Was that a lie? He didn't let himself think about it long enough to know for sure.

"In the meantime, we're here." Matchstick stood a bit taller now ("It's all about the delivery. Posture's important"). "New York is protected."
 
"Candor, General Eyes News: It was mentioned earlier that investigations for the missing heroes were underway. Are we to assume that, because replacements are being introduced, that they will not be returning soon?"

'Oh boy. I'm so glad I didn't get that question,' thought Ophelia as the hero, formerly presented as Matchstick, began to answer. The heat from the bright stage lights paired with the sudden intensity of the audience would have been enough to produce a layer of perspiration upon her skin had it been real. Ophelia mentally added this to her list of perks involving the use of avatars. She didn't think even her extra strength deodorant would have been enough to ward off a nervous sweat a question like this would have caused her.

As Matchstick finished, Sentinel perked herself up a bit. 'Good answer. That was a good answer', she thought. Her eyes drifted from Matchstick back towards the crowd. A quick sweep of the room revealed a few reporters that were eyeing her expectantly. She assumed a question directed towards her would be asked soon, if not next. Straightening her back and squaring her shoulders, Sentinel, dressed in her best smile, faced the announcer.

With a quick gesture of the hand, the announcer, hoping for a much lighter question, picked a woman close to the stage. The woman was in her mid-30s, with a straightened brown bob and a brown, wool pencil skirt and blazer. She looked particularly familiar.

"Monique Marmelstein, The Tally Ho!: Heroes are meant to serve the city. When things get rough, how do we know you'll do your best to conserve and protect our communities?"

Sentinel glanced around a bit, awaiting an answer to arise from another hero. Only a second of, at least to her, uncomfortable silence passed before she voiced her own answer. "I, along with many of my peers, grew up here. This city is as much our home as it is yours. Protecting this city isn't just a job to us. We're protecting our memories, our families. I can assure you that New York is in good hands".
 
ARC Press Conference - On Stage
"Slow deep breath, chin up, look smart cut casual and try and just- well not freak out, just look the part Max. We've gone over this enough in practice." Karen's whispered into Max's ear via his helmet's headset, sounding as supportive as she could muster though to be honest she wanted this press event to be over just as much as Max did, desperate no PR nightmare would happen and she could just go out for a smoke in peace for once. It wasn't anything personal against Max, kid was far more level-headed than the other Hive teen hero and his powers were less destructive afterall. Just dealing with kid's just wasn't her thing, and she'd rather have a hero who atleast had a backbone and didn't need coaching so much on how to act on stage.

Her words did help though Max did his best to try and keep himself composed under the searing intensity of the stage light's heat and the reporters and camera's scrutinising. Max was pretty thankful that unlike Peter's mask pretty much all of Max's face was covered and the visor was opaque enough you couldn't see his expression that might give away his nerves, all reporter's could make out was a slight pair of pinpoint glowing spots where the strange-reflective film of the Max's eyes was reflecting the intense studio lights back, in a slight yellowish hue from the contact lenses. As the questions bounced from Hero to Hero he'd gently tilt his head to follow but tried to stay in position on stage, his left skate gently rocking almost bouncing a little but he tried to play off the nervous tick as casualness and enthusiasm. Tried to, Max had no idea how well people took it.

He internally cringed as Peter nabbed the question on the old Heroes, and Grey pitched the one on how do they know the Heroes were ready. Both kinda tough questions. Even the large, muscular and to Max's eye unnaturally heroic looking woman nearby Sentinel gave good replies. Max's eyes scanning the reporters trying to gauge their reactions, but everything seemed to be going well.

"Khalisah Al-Jilani, Westerlund News: We're curious what kind of choices went into designing for your costume, what kind of impression were you going for?" This question got pitched by the announcer to Impulse, causing him to reflectively swallow to try and clear his throat. Play it cool act natural, even though you barely got a say in designing it. "Think it's cool huh?" He started almost mimicking how Matchstick did his with some humour. "More seriously the most important design decisions were for safety, and visibility. This gear is designed to keep me safe on the job, and to make me clearly recognisable when somebody needs help - So to be honest not that different than the considerations for a Police officer, just with the additional dangers of supervillains and of personal speed of course." Impulse played it off rather well, doing a genuine awkward but PR-wise endearing rub on the back of his helmet sounding fair confident in his words and a little comedic as his deepened voice exited the voice changer, this scripted persona very different persona to what he'd presented moments before behind the set. The power of rehearsing for hours in the mirror huh?

Before the announcer could really stop her however the reporter quickly spoke up again, apparently not fully satisfied. "Follow-up question: While that is all well and good but to put it bluntly, don't you think having a Hero skating around might set a dangerous example to children and teenager who may come to look up to you?" This question came out of left-field for Impulse and he visually froze for a few moments as the camera's panned back to him and Max's brain nearly fried, this wasn't a question they'd rehearsed in practice. Karen behind the stage peering out over the room biting her lip as she put her hand to the earpiece and began to try and instruct Max on what to say. "Kid, calm down. Repeat after me."

"Well first of all, I would say to the youth of this city watching, please never attempt anything the Heroes do yourself, if there is genuine danger please get to safety and tell an adult or call the police. I'd be flattered if the young people of the city did look up to me, and I do hope if they do take me as a role model they'll follow my words to stay safe, always wear their helmet and pads when they go out for some fun, and that they focus on the small acts of kindness and heroism we as Heroes might not be around for but they can do to make other people's lives better. Be it helping their local senior citizens across the street, holding open the doors for others, or helping raise money for charity." Max did his best almost in lock-step repeating every word his handler said verbatim to the crowd, though his posture and vocal tone sounded uncertain and far less 'relaxed' as his previous response as Impulse, but he presented it acceptably enough for the press to seem satisfied and the reporter to sit down.
 
Good answers to difficult questions, Wrath thought as she observed her new colleagues. Placator seemed nervous, but was doing well enough on his own. Everyone answered with professionalism. She hoped they skipped her. She had not been told they would be speaking (she honestly thought she was just here to keep any situations from escalating and to that end had been eating any anger she could) and she knew she did not know enough English for this.

"Beya Barneyo, The Scroll: Some of you have a more intimidating presence than others. How do you plan on counteracting that when rescuing young children?"

Wrath glanced around so she could observe whoever was to answer this question, only to realize Ms. Barneyo was looking at her rather pointedly.

Deodamnatus.

There was a noticeable pause as Wrath thought over the question. Wrath...has never had to look approachable before. Sure, she's been around her lieutenants' children, but they were usually prepared by their parents and therefore were more inclined to think of her as a giant playground than as a threat. Oh. Wait. That is ARC's goal right now. She took a breath before nervously reciting what her lieutenants told her so long ago.

"That is an optimum quaestio. But it is also what this is for. By introducendis now and not in the middle of violence, they can see that we are here to protego them. Praeterea, a gentle hand and a calm voice will almost always securi any person who feels intimidated."

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her handler frantically signaling for her to stop talking, so she gave her most reassuring smile to Ms. Barneyo and said in the same tone she used to reassure her soldiers during a surgery, "You will be okay. We are here and we will not leave you to fight this alone," before stepping back to signal she was done talking.

Wrath silently sent up a prayer to her former soldiers, thanking them and wishing them well in Elysium, apologising for all the times she had scoffed at their insistence she go home with them for holidays.

Later, thanks to her nervous switching between English and Latin, various news stations would run stories featuring language analysts who all tried their hand at identifying and translating. For now though, Siobhan (Wrath's handler not that she can be bothered to remember) made the conscious decision not to scream as he felt his frustration drain away unnaturally. He just dialed the legal team to let them know they needed to forge Wrath papers that indicated they'd taken her in as a child and that she was an Italian immigrant, but now legally in the U.S.
 
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The job was a strange one, Plume had to admit. Not only were the requirements one of the loosest ones she'd ever worked with—cause a ruckus and drop any information gained from it at the pickup point (specifically without waiting to see who came to take it)—but the method of recruitment was questionable at best. Just a note. No trace of the person who'd left it. A simple note scrawled across a yellow scrap of paper (ripped from what seemed to be a Hive-branded notepad, of all things) and slipped under the crack of her door.

At first, she ignored it. Any rational person would. "At ARC's conference, after the crowd gathers. Attract the attention of the star guests." What the hell did that even mean? ARC didn't have any conferences listed on the date they gave, and their shitty social media accounts didn't so much as hint at one—they were too busy prattling on about the recent disappearances (which—Plume knew—didn't matter much in the long run considering each agency had a handful of sidekicks at their disposal that could do the heroes' job just fine—if not better—but she supposed it was meant more to smooth the hackles of the batshit hero-fans out there than anything else).

But then ARC did announce a conference. Same date. Same location. Correct info down to the stage.

So you can understand why she became a bit more inclined to listen.

The second note came two days later in much the same fashion—a cryptic note scribbled in cursive. "Compensation will be double your usual fee if elimination of opponents and allies is properly avoided. Other collateral is acceptable." The rest mentioned something about a backup plan that she wouldn't be needing and a thinly veiled threat about breaking the terms, but Plume had eyes only for the wad of cash they included with it. An "advance payment," they called it.

Sure, it was risky—and there was every chance it was a trap—but if it paid her groceries for the next couple months, then she could make do. She always did.

Even if it was beginning to become unbearable.

A sigh wormed its way out of her mouth and into the blazing heat that the day had gathered. Being dressed completely in black was all well and good for her... condition, but it worked far better in the cool dark of night than this sweat-ridden air. The back of her hoodie was growing sticky and damp; she would've taken it off then and there if it wasn't for the fact that her signature scorpion tail lay curled neatly beneath it and against her back—prepared to strike at any moment.

It clicked impatiently.

Technically, they were supposed to wait until the conference was starting to come to a close—had something to do with 'intel gathering'—but clearly no one was asking any important questions. And besides, if she stayed here any longer, then the sweat plastering her shirt to her back might reveal her tail, and that simply wouldn't do.

What difference did twenty minutes make, anyway?

She reached into the pocket of her hoodie—her fingers brushing the rim of the smoke bomb within (they were one of her favorite toys)—before she snatched it, hooked her thumb around the wire pull, and threw the rest of it to the ground with a grin.
 
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