The   TINGLE   Of   Electricity   …   The   Static   In   The   Air   Of   Perhaps   A

somber   hues   shift   upward   to   the   call   for   mizuse’s   attention,   flickering   with   light   from   the   warmth   emanating   from   her   tone.   a   break.   mizuse   snorts,   but   a   smile   of   interest   blossoms   across   her   features   to   paint   over   the   petulant   pout   that   was   there   before.   she   never   gets   a   break.   it   is   all   of   her   own   doing,   anyway.   there   are   ones   who   DESERVE   a   break   from   the   constant   stress   of   villany   and   turmoil   than   her.   ❛   i   don’t   know   …   ❜   reluctance   in   her   tone;   however,   her   growling   stomach   says   different.   mizuse   tries   to   muffle   the   sound   by   crossing   toned   arms   in   front   of   her   stomach,   but   suzume   knows   the   younger   is   always   hungry.   especially   after   training.   ❛   i   guess   i   could   take   a   little   break,   ❜   another   shrug   of   her   shoulders,   brushing   off   the   sheer   excitement   of   spending   time   with   suzume   outside   of   heroic   (   or   vigilante   )   duties.   ❛   as   long   as   i’m   back   by   my   stupid   curfew   !   ❜

suzu hates to admit it, but it’s true. with the way kronos has ushered the twins and the serum back into secrecy, all there’s left to do is to prepare. for her, this means organizing within crux: plans of action and collecting information. for mizuse, this means increased training. both play a waiting game, unable to discern exactly when the next threat will occur—or what it will be. who knows? maybe dante will come back, and they’ll have a whole different set of problems on their hands.

“okay, so, change of plans.” suzu claps her hands. “c’mon, look at me,” she beckons, calling for mizuse’s attention with a smile and warm tone. “we take a break. and i mean it—we all need breaks. you’ll burn out if you don’t take them. we can get lunch at the place near mine, take the rest of the day off. go shopping or something. what do you think?”

it   is   all   a   facade   —   it’s   what   five   years   of   training   within   the   nsa   and   observing   her   father   veil   emotions   ever   since   she   had   met   him.   mizuse   engrossed   in   conversation   with   an   avid   journalist   wanting   to   pick   apart   a   rookie   after   a   shocking   revelation;   however,   the   speedster   is   ALWAYS   one   step   ahead.   blasé   smile,   an   occasional   sip   of   her   sparking   beverage,   maintaining   eye   -   contact   with   the   reporter   …   not   revealing   a   thing.   mizuse   didn’t   know   how   much   longer   she   could   stand   here   and   deal   with   the   interview,   hues   flickering   for   anything—anyone—more   interesting   she   could   point   them   out   to.   after   all,   she   is   a   newbie   to   all   of   this   …   and   the   fleet   -   foot’s   patience   is   starting   to   wear   thin.   wings   attach   to   her   ankles   subtly   flutter,   concealed   by   the   material   of   her   dress.   next   thing   mizuse   notices   is   her   savior,   suzu,   approach   the   two   of   them   and   the   journalist   makes   a   hasty   retreat.   ❛   me   ?   nervous   ?   psh   —   ❜   mizuse   grins   with   a   dismissive   wave   and   a   shake   of   her   head.   ❛   dad   didn’t   want   to   attend.   you   and   i   both   know   he   doesn’t   like   these   sort   of   things,   ❜   she   answers,   knowing   the   vigilante   can   see   right   through   her   act.   grin   slightly   falters   as   mizuse   steps   closer   to   her,   fiddling   with   silver   jewelry   wrapped   around   digits.   suzu,   adopting   the   role   of   big   sister,   is   the   source   of   information,   motivation   ...   reassurance.   ❛   …   i’m   guessing   you   didn’t   hear   anything   about   this.   ❜

with : @kyllini location : buchanan’s gala, main room date : january 7, 2040

it’s easy to spot the familiar figure caught in a conversation she doesn’t want to be in. with how fast mizuse is, an escape should be as simple as running away—but the politics of playing nice make that a bit more complicated. suzu knows mizuse can take care of herself, but who would she be if she didn’t help out at least a little? 

she cuts in between mizuse and the journalist with a winning smile, leaning in to whisper something that sends them off bolting. the disturbance gone, she turns to mizuse, an ease in her demeanor that comes with being in the presence of the younger woman. “don’t tell me hitsuto actually left you alone to fend off the sharks by yourself,” she teases. “nervous?” not that mizuse looks it—picture perfect and the spitting image of what a hero should be, slipstream is ready to face the crowd. “don’t be. no nsa script could’ve prepared you for this mess.”

#KYLLINI   :    writing    blog    for    𝙺𝚁𝙾𝙽𝙾𝚂𝙵𝙼    dedicated    to    the    debut    of   the    𝑭𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑺𝑻    𝑾𝑶𝑴𝑨𝑵    𝑶𝑵    𝑬𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑯    ;    defying    all    odds    by    𝗢𝗨𝗧𝗥𝗨𝗡𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚    the    advance    technology    of    cybernetics    &    lowkey    STRUGGLING    to    handle    the    pressure    of    living    up    to    expectations    left     behind    by    𝗳𝗹𝗲𝗲𝘁  -  𝗳𝗼𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗱    predecessors.        

                                 written    by    𝚓𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚎    [   twenty4  +  she/her  +  cst   ]  

𝚒.  𝙱𝙸𝙾𝙶𝚁𝙰𝙿𝙷𝚈    𝚒𝚒.  𝙸𝙽𝚃𝚁𝙾𝚂𝙿𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽    𝚒𝚒𝚒.  𝙸𝙼𝙰𝙶𝙴𝚂    𝚒𝚟.  𝙿𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚃

Drowning Love 溺れるナイフ | 2016

mizuse   is   collecting   hors   d’oeruves   on   a   small   plate   with   the   paragon   hero   at   her   side.   with   all   of   this   standing   around,   nerves   churning   her   stomach,   and   the   necessity   to   consume   some   calories   —   she   can’t   resist.   the   choices   are   OVERWHELMING,   fingers   wiggling   in   enticement   as   she   reaches   for   a   bruschetta.   she   brings   it   to   her   brims,   biting   into   it   with   a   CRUNCH   !   as   baz   turns   to   blurt   out   a   vexed   question   directed   towards   her.   brows   raise,   gaze   shifting   from   him   to   the   twins   across   the   extravagant   ballroom   showcasing   their   injected   abilities   as   she   chews.   ❛   i   mean,   they’re   usin’   their   powers   right   in   front   of   us.   the   serum   works,   ❜   mizuse   answers   once   she   swallows   and   pivots   her   attention   back   to   baz,   using   him   and   his   skepticism   to   freely   bounce   hypotheses   off   of.   show   a   not   so   easily   accessible   side   of   the   young   hero.   it   wouldn’t   be   the   first   time   she’d   talk   his   ear   off   or   encourage   him   to   continue   a   rant.   ❛   i   wonder   if   it’s   temporary.   if   they   have   a   weak   constitution   and   weren’t   MADE   to   handle   whatever   injected   power   they   got,   use   over   time   will   have   a   huge   side   effects   on   ‘em,   ❜   a   hum   of   thought   and   then   a   shrug   of   exposed   shoulders.   ❛   we’ll   just   have   to   see.   ❜   sentence   ends   with   another   bite   to   finish   off   the   toasted   italian   bread.   

𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐒      @      𝐁𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐍'𝐒   𝐆𝐀𝐋𝐀      —      𝗢𝗣𝗘𝗡

he   wasn't   planning   on   attending,      visibly   nursing   a   glass   of   whiskey   in   one   hand   and   eyes   rolling   at   every   other   boastful   syllable      ...      he'd   much   rather   be   somewhere   with   much   dimmer   lights,      tucked   behind   the   vip   section   of   lux   sipping   on   something   much   stronger.      a   sigh   filters   out   at   the   remembrance   of   his   father's   words      —      duty   is   duty.      you   chose   this,      you   have   to   follow   through.      gaze   turns   to   the   figure   to   his   side,      brow   quirking   in   subtle   inquiry.      “      d'you   actually   buy   that   shit      ?      anyone   can   be   super      ?      ”      the   scoff   that   lifts   from   his   lips   is   evident,      not-so-vague   disbelief   riddled   through   otherwise   undeniable   arrogance.      “      it's   cute,      i'suppose.      it's   like   when   little   kids   wear   labcoats      ...      stethoscopes   'n   all   that,      playin'   doctors      —      pretending   to   be   something   they're   not,      ”

optics   gaze   upon   a   VIVID   kandinsky   painting,   analyzing   the   vibrant   colors   as   thoughts   of   tonights’   revelations   swirl   inside   of   her   mind.   mizuse   wanted   to   take   a   break   from   the   commotion   inside   the   main   ballroom   and   see   the   newest   installations   herself.   taking   a   break   standing   around   in   heels   is   a   plus,   too.   in   peripheral   vision,   mizuse   notices   the   approach   of   a   figure   —   a   kronos   employee.   posture   straightens,   but   she   doesn’t   move   besides   moving   the   pair   of   heels   to   the   other   side   of   her   to   free   up   space   on   the   furniture.   ❛   i’ve   seen   performances   better   than   anything   they   could   even   DREAM   of   doing,   ❜   a   subtle   smile   and   a   glance   towards   saskia,   tucking   feathery   onyx   tresses   behind   her   ear.   ❛   s’not   fair   they’re   the   only   ones   who   get   to   showcase   their   talents   …   i   think   we   all   should   deserve   a   shot   to   wow   the   crowd,   ❜   the   speedster   slightly   leans   towards   saskia,   the   curl   of   her   lips   playful.   ❛   i   am   a   pretty   good   singer,   y’know.  i   could   definitely   push   the   twins   out   of   first   place.    . . .    you   got   a   secret   talent   ?   ❜   

when: 7 january 2040 where: buchanan's annual gala who: open!

saskia loves a good party - especially one where the food and drinks are on her boss’s dime - as much as the next person, but even she needs to step away for a moment. blame it on buchanan’s announcement and the sudden need of every single kronos employee to come seek her out and congratulate her as if she’d created the whole damn serum herself. she’s but a small part of the machine and she doesn’t like taking credit for other people’s work.

she doesn’t really want any credit for this either.

the sight of the ‘miracle twins’ leaves her nauseated and with the whole museum being available, saskia takes advantage - meandering from exhibit to exhibit until there’s fewer and fewer people and no chatter about super serums or wonder twins. “i think they’re going to put on another performance here in a few minutes,” she says. she sits on a bench in front of a large painting but facing away from it in a swirl of braids and green fabric. “you sure you wanna miss out on that?”

one   of   the   things   that   relaxes   mizuse   is   the   wind   in   her   hair,   breeze   brushing   along   smooth   skin   —   whether   the   sensations   arise   from   a   sprint   or   perched   on   the   highest   point.   despite   mizuse   being   less   adapted   to   cold   weather,   she   still   seeks   the   rooftop   (   she   purchased   a   sweatshirt   from   the   museum’s   gift   shop   that’s   not   surprisingly   open   to   have   some   sort   of   warmth   )   for   a   breath   of   fresh   air   &   some   solitude.   the   speedster   doesn’t   expect   anyone   else   up   here,   eyes   wide   in   WONDER   and   an   elated   gasp   once   she   steps   outside   to   witness   the   hanging   lights   and   sculptures   decorating   the   space.   however,   a   beat   after   expressing   her   wonder   and   relief,   her   attention   swiftly   shifts   to   the   seated   figure.   hands   shoved   into   the   front   pocket   of   the   sweatshirt   (   what   a   great   outfit   —   a   vintage   couture   dress   &   matching   heels   underneath   a   cotton   pullover   ),   mizuse   recognizes   it’s   one   of   the   heroes   -   in   -   training   …   oswald,   was   it   ?   oscar   ?   ❛   nah,   i’m   good,   ❜   she   declines   the   offer,   gradually   with   lithesome   steps   making   her   way   over   to   the   parapet.   mizuse   reaches   to   slip   off   her   shoes   and   sets   them   aside   before   lifting   herself   onto   the   ledge   beside   otto   in   a   fluid   motion.   ❛   nice   view   up   here,   eh   ?   ❜   she   gives   a   swift   glance   towards   him   before   nodding   her   chin   towards   the   novus   skyline,   slowly   kicking   her   feet   back   and   forth.   

when: 7 january 2040 where: buchanan’s annual gala who: open!

there’s little trouble to get into on the rooftop, but then he hadn’t expected to find much up of anything up here. he’s mildly surprised to find it decorated with tiny twinkling lights that seem to never phase out of relevance no matter the decade. there are seating arrangements, too, as if it’s common to host an event atop a museum but then maybe it is. a lot of change can happen in seven years. he hoists himself up to sit on the parapet - feet dangling over the edge - and gazes out over the capital city. when he was younger, he dreamed of blacking out an entire city like this. just to see if he could. he’s old enough to know it’s a death wish, but that childlike curiosity remains. he supposes he should be grateful the nsa couldn’t extinguish that over the last seven years. he cranes his head back as the door to the rooftop opens, blue eyes giving the intruder a once over before he, good naturedly, offers his vape pen. not without taking a hit first, but still offered nonetheless. “first hit’s free.“

lightning   -   fast   reflexes   catch   the   water   bottle   tossed   her   way   as   suzume   speaks   her   usual   wise   and   sisterly   words   (   she   can   read   mizuse   like   a   book   no   matter   how   much   she   has   mastered   to   conceal   true   feelings   ).   it   makes   mizuse   sigh   —   in   both   annoyance   and   exhaustion.   ❛   i   know,   i   know,   ❜   the   younger   responds   as   she   hoists   herself   to   sit   on   a   crate.   ever   since   the   buchanan   incident,   nsa   has   been   focusing   on   more   training   on   their   heroes,   especially   the   ones   they   do   not   put   on   a   pedestal.   non   -   stop   training   is   a   constant   reminder   that   mizuse   wasn’t   fast   enough   …   thinking,   reacting,   saving.   even   if   mizuse   was   responsible   for   rescuing   guests   from   the   shattered   chandelier   and   corralling   novus   citizens   out   of   the   museum   to   escape   the   frenzied   twins,   she   wasn’t   on   time   to   save   everyone.   at   least   with   suzume,   the   pressure   of   being   looked   down   on   isn’t   as   prominent.   being   in   her   presence   is   comforting.   like   home.   

❛   there’s   not   much   i   can   do   right   now,   anyway.   ❜   mizuse   adds   before   taking   a   sip   of   water   with   a   shrug   of   her   shoulders.   pout   clear   on   visage,   she   slowly   kicks   her   legs   back   and   forth,   optics   focused   on   the   ground.

with : @kyllini location : an old warehouse, somewhere in novus date : a few days after the gala

an empty warehouse becomes anything suzu wants it to be, and the environment warps over and over, illusory projectiles fired at mizuse to dodge ( among other unorthodox methods ). it’s a practice exercise tailored just for her, something they haven’t done in a while, between the nsa scooping her up and everything in between. feels like the old days. nostalgia’s not the only reason, though—after that disastrous night, suzu understands wanting to be better, faster, and she figures this will suit the younger better than sitting around doing nothing. 

“don’t beat yourself up too much over it,” she says once they stop for a break, tossing a water bottle to mizuse. “you’ll get too in your head that way. focus on what you can do instead, y’know?”

optics   flicker   across   the   scarred   skin   of   her   instructor,   observing   the   way   his   calloused   digits   point   and   gesture   towards   the   arsenal   of   weapons   mizuse   definitely   has   no   reason   to   be   in   possession   of.   it’s   not   like   she   is   a   terrible   shot.   the   entire   round   pierced   through   the   target’s   bullseye;   however,   why   would   she   need   to   rely   on   a   weapon   she   can   out   run   ?   ❛   tsk   —   yeah,   it   would   be   a   bad   idea   to   bring   a   gun   to   a   fight   against   ME,   sir,   ❜    gaze   shifts   back   up   towards   his   visage   at   the   mention   of   the   gala   —   guilt   slamming   down   her   heart   into   the   pits   of   her   stomach.   i   wasn’t   fast   enough.   the   devil-may-care   smile   falters   in   the   slightest,   sensing   the   mood   of   the   lesson   shifting.   mizuse   sets   down   the   secured   weapon   she   had   previously   fired   back   on   the   table   to   put   her   hands   on   her   hips.   she   notices   the   glint   of   specialty   knives   and   daggers,   similar   to   the   ones   that   her   father   had   used   during   his   clandestine   career   as   “   kage.  ”   let’s   not   forget   the   katana   that   is   his   prized   possession   (   mizuse   has   secretly   played   around   with   …   hey,   her   mother   did   put   her   in   kendo   classes   !   ).   ❛   i   know   my   way   around   these,   ❜   mizuse   picks   up   one   of   the   combat   knives,   grip   secure   around   the   handle,   with   the   edge   oriented   away   from   her.   as   of   right   now,   mizuse   does   not   carry   weapons   with   her   while   on   duty   as   a   sentinel.   when   she   was   moonlighting   as   a   vigilante   way   back   when   …   that’s   a   different   story.   ❛   if   we’re   talking   about   using   ANYTHING   in   arms’   reach,   sir   …   i   suggest   there   should   be,   like,   more   unusual   items   here.   this   laying   around   would   be   a   miracle.   ❜

OPEN ! summary training together a week after the buchanan's gala

moments ago, he had instructed them to empty a round into a single metal plate one-thousand meters away. exactly one emptied round later, as the last bullet falls loose from the barrel of their gun, he returns with a bundle in his arms. wayne lays out a cloth spread of weapons on the table. four different guns, three different knives. "put the safety on," he reminds, without looking up, as deft fingers load copper-plated steel bullets into a black fnx-45 tac. glinting off the fluorescents are scratches on the barrel, like someone used this gun to hit something. or someone. in the harsh light, nothing is forgiven—every inch of him shows hard and carved and calloused. casually cut and scarred. along the jutting bone of his left wrist, snaking around his hand then disappearing into his palm, is a line of scar tissue about an inch thick.

and his knuckles are still puffed up and scabbed over from the attack a week before. "alright," he starts. "never bring a gun to a supers' fight and, best case scenario, your target's dead before they know you ever existed," he lists off lessons from their past few sessions as he attaches an omega 45k to the barrel-end of a gun. "but," he pauses. "you were at the gala. or you've heard of it by now..." he holds a sigh in his chest. all of this almost feels silly—something so hopeless about trying to shoot at shadows, preparing to fight an enemy no one can see. but he wants to help, but he's no good at asking so how have you been, and he's even worse at saying the right thing, so this is the best he can do. "you need to know how to fight in any situation, with anything within arm's reach." he nods at the spread of weapons in front of them, cueing them to take their pick. "let me see your grip."