Chapter Text
Claerel is a hero , she shouldn’t be so shaken by a meeting. She battles villains regularly, she puts life and limb on the line to help people, a closed door should not be inspiring this level of dread. Then again, in the field flash bombs are allowed, encouraged even.
Here, not so much.
She can’t just blow up this problem, even if the thought was becoming increasingly appealing.
Gently pushing the door she’s met with a top floor office, pristine and ornate. Floor to ceiling windows offer a stunning view of the skyline, but it's not enough to pull her attention from the desk sitting in the center of the room.
The man at the desk continues to work on his paperwork, only a flick of his wrist towards an empty chair to acknowledge her presence. Even after she takes her seat, he continues working. The rhythmic scritch of a pen is the only noise in the room.
The desk in front of her is nice. Dark wood polished to a shine. A neat metal shelf filled with tidy sticks of paper. A small marble statue of a man, kneeling with the world on his shoulder.
Still, the only noise was the gentle scratch of a pen.
Turning her gaze to the awards lining the walls she takes a moment to be grateful for the mask covering her face. The tinted glass would make it far harder to see any nerves written across her face. Not that she had any reason to be nervous, it's just a normal meeting. Don't turn it into anything more than that. The calming words were grounding. She tried to ignore the louder voice hissing in her ear that getting called into her superiors office was never a good thing.
She wasn't entirely successful.
The shuffling of papers calls her attention back to the desk where Mr. En’Ouves seems to have finally had enough of letting her squirm.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“I can’t say I do,” Claerel responds in a voice that projects far more calm than she feels. A skill honed from talking with the press. She hates doing it, but it's a necessity in her field. At least she can lie to the media if need be. His powers make her tell the truth.
Mr. En’Ouves smirks, and sets his papers down. He doesn’t clarify. Instead he continues on,
“Do you know what our job is? Our purpose as the heroes of this city?”
Claerel nods her head slightly,
“Be a dear and describe it for me.”
“We help people,” she says, “We defeat villains, and protect civilians.”
“That’s right,” he nods at her approvingly, “It's an important job, and a difficult one, as I’m sure you're aware.” Soft chuckles echo through the room, as if he was letting her in on a private joke.
She gives another small nod.
“That’s why I like to stay informed with everyone's performance. To ensure no one is struggling under the weight of expectations.”
The tension in the room ratchets up another notch. She doesn't nod again, doesn't dare move.
“I’ve been hearing a lot about you from your superiors lately.” She swallows against the dryness in her throat. The dread of being pulled to the office at the top floor of the hero tower digging claws into her deeper. Saying nothing, she waits for him to continue.
“They have been saying wonderful things,” he says, and her brain stalls.
“Oh?”
He laughs again. It's a nice sound, dignified and pleasant. It should inspire a sense of calm. It doesn't quite succeed.
“I've heard nothing but compliments: ‘A strong sense of work ethic, quick to accept adjustments when training, a stelar television presence.’ It's what I’ve been looking for.”
“Looking for..?”
“Yes,” he says. He smiles at her from across the desk, and steeples his hands under his chin. “You see, I have decided it would be wise to take on an apprentice of sorts.”
“An apprentice?” she questions, twisting her hands in her lap.
“Of sorts. We have no shortage of heroes here, but what we are lacking, what we truly need is a figurehead. Someone for the public to look up to. A beacon of hope and safety to rally behind. A necessary role, one that has been regretfully unfilled in recent years. I have been looking for quite a while, but out of all the heroes here, I believe you are most deserving of the honor,” His grin widens as his arms swing wide. A grand flourish to punctuate his speech.
“You want me to be a public figure?”
“I want you to be a symbol.”
She just blinks owlishly. The notion of being a public figure had been foreign when she got this job. Even after a few news interviews as Solar Flare, it still was. Bringing his arms back to his sides Mr. En’Ouves settles back into the seriousness of before.
“Think of it as a promotion,” he tells her. “You’ll get a significant pay raise with the position, along with the added publicity.”
It was a lot to take in. The jump from dread to confusion to even more confusion was making her head spin. Taking a deep breath, she tried to sort out the racing thoughts in her head.
The extra pay would be nice. She was already making a decent amount as a hero, but she still needed to pay for college, not to mention the rent for her apartment. Her friends may be comfortable carrying more of that cost but it made something slimy curl up in her gut to use them like that.
Not only would she get better pay, but she would get better publicity. Better publicity means earning more people's trust. More people's trust means being given more assignments, more chances to help. ‘The public looks to people they know for guidance. Be someone they can look to and they will trust you to look out for them in return.’ She'd heard it from her mentors and seen it in the field enough to know it's true.
Coming to a decision she raised her head to meet Mr. En’Ouves’ eyes,
“It would be an honor,” she says.
What harm could a promotion do?
—
Getting to the apartment was a relief. After her meeting, the rest of the day went by in a blur. Honestly, she’s not completely sure what happened after she left Mr. En’Ouves office, she barely remembers the trip back home. After a bit of fumbling with her keys she was able to get the door open, and make it inside. Sliding off her shoes she slips them mindlessly into a small shelf by the door. Her eyes were focused on the couch.
The sweet, soft, heavenly couch.
It was Clove’s originally, whether they owned it before or bought it new for the apartment she still wasn’t sure. All she knew was that Clove had demanded it come with them to the apartment, and after everyone tried sitting on it, no one even tried to protest. It felt like being cradled in a cloud.
As she shuffled towards sweet relaxation her foot caught on something pointed. A hiss escaped her mouth as she reached down to clutch her foot. On the topic of things Clove brought to the apartment,
“God-fucking-dammit Clove ” she yelped as she tripped over their--frankly ridiculous-- heels. Wearing them must have been like wearing knives.
The first time Clove wore them she refused to be seen with them. However, they were a fact of life now. A fact of life that had just stabbed her because Clove couldn’t remember to put them away .
Clove pokes their head out of their room, teal hair pinned away with some silly clips. A face mask covers their tan skin. “Wha?”
“How many times do we have to remind you about the stupid heels?”
Clove just looks at the heels and the annoyed expression on Claerel’s face. “I forgot?”
“Of course you did,” Claerel mutters. Nudging over her brat of a roommate she makes her way over to the kitchen, taking a path blessedly clear of terrible pointy shoes.
The kitchen was a bit of a mess, a pile of dishes left sitting in the sink, Willow had obviously forgotten it was their turn to take care of them. Pushing open the fridge, she just stared at the contents. Maybe if she stared long enough, the image in front of her would change.
“Hey Cordelia,” she calls, “What the hell is in our fridge?”
A clatter came from the other side of the apartment as her final roommate clambered out of her room.
“Is this important? I’m studying right now in the hopes that physics will stop stomping on my hopes and dreams.” Claerel needs to take a deep breath. She loves her friends, she really loves her friends.
“Please tell me why your claws are in the place of my leftovers”
“Clove told me it would make the polish dry faster, and I really want them finished soon.” Another deep breath. She really, really loves her friends. Raucous cackles spill from the couch where Clove has draped themself,
“You actually believed that?” Clove called from under the blankets, and Claerel watched her friend's face tense as she turned to face the deceiver in the living room.
“Dipping them in ice water speeds up the process,” Claerel says to a furious Cordelia.
“You little shit!”
Shaking her head she turned back to the fridge to pull out the set of nails. Shimmering purple stilettos filed to a razor sharp point. They suited her friend well even if they should never have been in the fridge.
“Are you doing okay?”
Smiling softly she turned to find Willow leaning up against the counters. Red hair tied up into a bun, and some oil covering her freckles.
“I’m fine, just kind of a crazy day at work,” Claerel says.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah…”
“Anything special?”
“Well,” Claerel considers not telling anyone, but they’d be happy for her. “I got a promotion! I think…”
“Holy shit! You got a promotion?” The commotion in the living room paused as both of the troublemakers turned to listen in to the conversation happening next to them. Clove had one of Cordelia’s small pigtails in their hand and Cordelia looked to have a firm grip on their calf with her teeth. It was very unclear who was winning.
“Yeah, I’m apparently gonna get a pay raise too.”
“Fuck yeah! A celebration is in order!” Clove announces as they smother Cordelia in the couch cushions. Muffled speech spills out from the couch as Cordelia tries to add in her two cents before realizing how difficult her current position made that. A small foot connects dangerously close to Clove's throat as Cordelia squirms her way out of their hold.
“What about dinner? Clove can pay!” She flops off the couch, ignoring Clove’s mock whines of attempted murder and people only caring about them for their money.
“Weren’t you just saying that your physics homework was ‘crushing your hopes and dreams’? And that you really need to pass the test you have coming up?”
“I did need to work, five minutes ago,” Cordelia sprints into the kitchen, sliding to a stop before grasping her hands together. A beaming smile, chaotic and bright giving her more presence then her short frame would suggest.
“Now, I need to go celebrate my bestie's promotion with her.” She spins to address the house at large, “Clove stop being dramatic and get up, Willow grab your shoes, and Claerel go get changed into whatever clothes you’d like. It’s party time!” With that statement out of the way she turned to run back to the bedroom presumably to get ready herself.
The room was quiet when she left before Willow laughed as she pushed herself off the counters.
“Well, you heard her. We should go get ready.” With that said she turned to walk to the couch, yanking Clove from their forlorn pile as she made her way to her room. Still reeling from the conversation, Claerel stood frozen by the fridge. She knew they were party animals, but this was intense. She kind of loved the way they all dropped everything to celebrate some unclear promotion she’d gotten though. Shaking her head gently, she started to make her way to her own room to get ready.
They were a weird bunch, but she really did love her friends.
__
Nearly three hours later, they’re finally headed out. It’s already late by the time they start making their way towards food and Claerel is starving, but she’s having too much fun with her friends to really mind. For all their talk of a celebration, everyone agreed to stick the usual. A small asian restaurant a few streets down that they all liked. Sliding into their usual booth they order potstickers as an entree. Predictably, Cordelia and Clove debate the level of spice acceptable in the food until Willow suggests they just get two different kinds. It’s a loud argument that garners a few glares from the other patrons. Claerel hangs her head at the glares before glancing up to share a commiserating smile with the waitress.
This is far from the first time the restaurant has witnessed this particular argument.
It was relaxed after everyone finally calmed down enough to order. The dim hanging lights and soft background music seemed to soothe the two most hyper members of the group. Conversation stayed light hearted and soft until the food arrived, and then it ceased altogether.
The orders, like everything else that night, followed in their usual pattern. Claerel with her noodles that smudge her lipstick no matter how carefully she eats them. Clove continues their quest to find the spiciest dish on the menu, and eats the night's attempt without so much as flinch. Cordelia orders some fancy sushi and then tries her best to steal some of Willow’s fried rice. Everything just like it always was as they finished their meal, split the bill (in spite of Cordelia’s earlier taunts), and make their way to The Nymph.
Until – unlike always – Clove insists on dessert as they head to the bar.
“You got a promotion!” Clove says, “First one in the apartment, it’s a time for celebration!”
“Yeah, we are celebrating aren’t we?” Willow chimes in, nudging against Claerel’s shoulder. Cordelia slides over leans her weight against the group too,
“I could and would kill a man to get some chocolate right now, don’t make me beg!”
This sets the group off once again, their laughter echoing loudly down the street. The happiness of her friends and the bakery a few stores down is enough to convince Claerel that desert is worth it so the group makes a quick pit stop. She’s on a giggly sugar high by the time they arrive at their usual bar.
Walking into the club feels like entering another world. A darker, warmer, far more music-filled world. Having finally arrived at their destination the night feels like it’s slotting back into normality. She and Willow break off to go grab drinks from the bar while Clove and Cordelia make their way to the stairs, their only focus the glowing dance floor below them. Willow leans in to be heard over the boom of the bass and the general chatter,
“How long do you think it will take one of them to start a dance fight?” She tilted her head consideringly, “Or a real fight.”
“Oh who knows. They’re in a good mood so it could actually be more than thirty minutes this time!”
That sets off the laughter once again as the two of them slide onto some empty stools, waiting for the bartender to finish the drink they were making.
__
The night starts to move faster from there. The energy of the club is infectious and everyone is feeling it. At one point Cordelia had pulled her from the bar to the dance floor. The two of them had danced like maniacs, spinning around in circles until Cordelia tripped and crashed into her, sending her into the people behind. That resulted in a quick switch of the groupings. Claerel and Clove head back to the bar while Willow is sent out for Cordelia watch.
It's not quiet at the bar, but a floor in between them and the DJ means that talking to each other without needing to scream is at least possible. Claerel waves the bartender over to get a bottle of water for each of them. The voice of reason in her head had been hushed, but it wasn't completely gone.
“So,” they say over the music, “When are you gonna tell me where you work?”
Claerel laughs awkwardly, eyes flitting down to the counter. It was some kind of metal. Steel maybe? She wasn’t quite sure.
“You already know I can’t tell you!”
“Why not?” Clove whines, “You and Willow are both so cagey about work. Give me a hint or something!”
Claerel just shakes her head with a slight wince.
She can’t tell Clove she’s a hero for two reasons. The first is that no one knows her identity, not even her superiors. It’s not a preference, it’s a rule. One of the most well enforced rules in the organization. Aliases and masks are required . Secret identities are just that, secret . It keeps the heroes safe in case of a security incident, and prevents any conflicts of interest.
The only person who’s name she knows for sure was the head of the company. The one who writes the checks and hires the heroes. The man who gave her the promotion earlier today; Duke En’Ouves. That is the cause for the second and more personal reason they can’t tell them.
Clove is one of her best friends. Clove En’Ouves has been one of her best friends for long enough for her to be trusted with some of the more sensitive details of their life. In particular, the longstanding resentment they have for their dad.
Learning that she was working for the person who has hurt someone she loves so much was a gut punch. Staying impersonal was difficult at first but she had come to a tentative conclusion.
Clove’s Dad was a terrible father.
Mr. En’Ouves was a man doing his best to help the city he called home.
Keeping the two separate in her head helped her maintain her professionalism. Just like her. Solar Flare and Claerel were different people, just like Clove’s dad and Mr. En’Ouves, and over time she had come to respect the man. Not more than she loves her friend though, so she wasn’t above keeping who her promotion came from a secret.
It would just hurt them, and there was nothing Claerel wanted to avoid more than that.
“My lips are sealed.”
“Boo!” Clove shouts over the music, but they get up to trade spots with a flustered Willow who is making her way away from the dance floor. “I’ll get it out of you eventually!”
She sincerely doubts it.
__
Cordelia manages to stay on the dance floor almost the entire rest of the night, and after a few more turns at the bar Clove and Claerel had taken a permanent place right next to her. At that point it fell to Willow to resume her usual position as the singular voice of reason, grabbing all three of her friends and attempting to pull them out of the club with her.
The crowd was just as thick as when they had first arrived so it was difficult to push through the groups of people as they all attempted to make it towards the entrance. The flashing lights of the dance floor called to Claerel’s fuzzy mind like a siren song. She tried to make her way back to it but shaky legs and a firm grip on her wrist kept her from making any progress. She was walking and walking but only moving backwards.
It was funny, and sad, but mostly funny.
A burst of cool autumn air shocks her out of her thoughts as the group makes it into the street and the doors to The Nymph swing shut behind her. Bye bye pretty lights, I’ll miss you. She can hear Clove saying something, but she’s not entirely sure what they're saying because she’s too focused on her feet.
Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot, left foot, left- no that’s not right . Right. Right! That’s what it was supposed to be!
“I rule the world! Bow down to your new queen!”
Pulling up her head she sees that they are now at the small park between their apartment and The Nymph.
When did we get here?
That thought is quickly abandoned for something far more entertaining. There stands Cordelia. Hands on her hips, with short brown hair mused and falling wild around her face. She almost looks majestic, with the streams of water arcing gracefully behind her back and fountain spotlights catching on the sparkles of her mini dress. Fierce and determined she stares down the world, ready for any battle.
“Get off of the fountain Cordelia.”
A hand leaves her wrist as a tired looking Willow walks over to her friend on the fountain, and looks Cordelia dead in the eye.
She has to look down.
All that majesty is now just funny. A child playing at being in charge while their exhausted parent watches from the side. It was just too much for Claerel’s already fuzzy brain and she bursts into joyous cackles at the silly, stupid sight her friends make.
“I’m not getting down, you can’t make me!” Willow continues her attempts to pull Cordelia off the fountain ledge while Cordelia continues resisting with all her might. Eventually, she is able to successfully squirm out of Willow’s grasp. Just in time to fall right back into the fountain with a pathetic splash. Claerel stared at the scene, Cordelia laying limp in the fountain, Willow holding her head off to the side, and Clove snickering nearby. She could feel a pressure starting to build behind her eyes.
“You killed her!” She cried, before bursting into tears.
__
Returning to the apartment for the second time that night she was in a much better mood than she had started out in. Cordelia was alive and unharmed, if a little wet, and Clove had entertained them for the last few streets with a memorized soliloquy. She didn’t understand all of it, just that the character was planning an assassination and some dude named Duncan was involved somehow. It was probably famous, she just couldn’t for the life of her remember why.
The living room was dark, street lights reflecting in from the balcony door to just barely illuminate the couch. The group loiters in the entry a bit as the last of the energy leaves them. Claerel bends down to tug off her boots and socks, chucking them behind her to land somewhere . She spares a second to hope that somewhere wasn’t right in front of the door before making her way to the couch. She was too tired to make it down the hallway to her room.
The carpet was plush underneath her feet but sinking into the couch was like laying on a cloud. She dragged her fingers along the floor until they snagged on one of the warm wool blankets Clove had thrown to the floor earlier. Dragging it up so she could wrap it around herself she closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of her friends around.
Rustling fabric and muttered complaints as Cordelia attempted to trade her soaked dress for an oversized hoodie Willow had left laying on the floor. The clink of buckles as Clove continued the long process of pulling off their current pair heels. The rush of water as Willow filled glasses in the kitchen.
It’s been a good day, she thinks as Clove curls up near her head with their own blanket. A weird day, but a good day. Willow sets the glasses down on the table so they would all have something to drink in the morning before settling in at the far side of the couch. A soft thump near her feet meant Cordelia had forgone walking around to the front of the couch, and simply flopped over the back. The blanket bunched unraveled as the final occupant began to settle in for the night. Claerel felt herself begin to drift off until she felt a familiar scratch against her ankle.
“Watch the nails ‘Delia,” she muttered. “That hurt.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re all gonna be sorry if you don’t stop talking,” complained the Clove from under their nest of blankets.
It was quiet, and warm. With her closest friends nearby Claerel drifts off into a peaceful sleep.
—
Returning to work the next day is… a lot . Starting with her first step through the shiny sliding glass doors into Headquarters' cavernous lobby it felt like everyone wanted to talk to her. Walking through hallways should have been a short process, the only human interaction needed being brief nods to coworkers she recognized. Instead, it feels like every person she sees wants to stop and congratulate her on her new position. Superiors, acquaintances, even people she’s never met. The rumor mill apparently works faster than she thought because it seems like every person in the building already knows.
By the time she entered the blessedly empty elevator she was almost out of breath from all the talking. Pressing the button to the basement she takes a moment to slouch against the walls of the elevator. Not even an hour in and she’s already wishing she could leave. She’s not used to so many people being up in her business. The ding of the elevator bell has her straightening again. If she can just make it to the labs without running into anyone, she’d be golden. She can make it.
Stepping out into the basement of the building, the hallways were once again silent. Unsurprising, seeing as how people only visited the tech labs when they had a problem, but it was a relief all the same. The thud of her boots echoed as she walked down the sterile white hallways, absently counting the room numbers to find the one she needed. 018, 021, 024, bingo.
027, Repair and Maintenance.
Holding her ID up to the lock she waits for the door to open before smoothly stepping inside. Instantly she is hit with a cacophony of noise. The rumble and hiss of machines, the whir of sanding tools, even what sounded like a saw towards the far end of the room. None of it mattered to her. Her focus was on the person hunched over the station to her left. Walking over to it she knocked sharply on the metal table top. Experience had taught her that waiting for this particular person's attention could take hours that she didn’t have right now. Straightening up from their hunched position the worker turns to look towards Claerel. Standing up straight they seemed to tower over her
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Current is the best techie in the program. They have always managed to return her gear in perfect condition no matter what state she hands it to them in. She admits to sending gear in more often than she’d like, but Current is blessedly non judgmental. It’s a crime that they don’t get more recognition.
They’re tall, and a mechanical mask covers the lower half of their face. Claerel guesses they’re female but she doesn’t actually know. The modulator in their mask gave their voice deep, with a digital twang. Their brown hair is down some of the time, up and away from their face most of the time. Their eyes are brown, but contacts aren’t uncommon. She even has some in herself.
Claerel has green eyes.
Solar Flare has bright blue.
“That vigilante busted my visor,” Claerel explains and passes the visor to Current for them to assess the damage. Her eyes try to pick up any reaction from behind her own mask.
The snort they let out sounds tinny and robotic, more like the noises of the machines in the background than anything that originated from a human. She doesn’t have too much room to judge though. Her own voice always sounds foreign coming out of the masks they wear.
“They’ve really got you on the runaround don’t they Solar Flare?” Current jokes, as they run a finger over the crack in the tech. They let out an impressed whistle as they notice just how far that crack spread. “What’d they do to get this to happen?”
“Elbowed me in the face,” she admits with a grimace. She’d had a broken nose before the medical wing worked its magic. The break wasn’t an experience she wanted to repeat. Neither was setting the bone and the rapid healing thanks to the powers of one of the nurses.
Everything had smelled like copper for an hour.
“That’s a dirty trick,” Current mutters as they set the mask on the table and move to the shelves behind them, presumably to begin gathering their tools.
“I’m pocketing it for later,” Claerel laughs, the sound tinny and fake. Just Like Current’s had earlier.
“I’ve got a hunch based on all your complaining lately, but who’d you run into?”
“The Drake, who else?”
“Ah, yeah. Kinda what I assumed, he keeps busting your stuff.”
“No kidding,” Claerel sighs, “He’s got the perfect setup to cause trouble for me too.”
“Oh yeah?” Current asks as they return to the table with a large handful of tools. A few that look like different sizes of screws, but many more she couldn’t identify if she tried. She has no idea how the people in tech can keep all the different tools straight, let alone use them, but she’s eternally grateful.
“He breathes fire,” Claerel says, and hopes up onto the work table a bit to the side of where the action is beginning to happen. “He’s got a tinted visor because of it. My flash bombs aren’t nearly as effective, it’s all I can do to remove the light and try to blind him that way.”
“I still can’t get over that being your main move set,” Current mutters distractedly, slowly starting to disassemble the mask so all the damaged parts can be replaced.
“You’ve got to work with what you have,”
“Speaking of,” they say as they lean back to look her in the eyes, “This’ll take me most of the day,”
“Cool, I have meetings today anyway.” Jumping down from the table she makes her way back towards the door.
“Good luck Solar Flare!” Current shouts after her and she gives them a wave over her shoulder as she heads out the door and back towards the elevator. She’ll be taking it all the way up to the top floor. The same floor she ended her day on yesterday.
__
Big meetings were one of her least favorite parts of her job, of any job really. After the sheer terror induced by yesterday's meeting she’d be happy to go at least a month without another one. Of course, that wasn’t going to happen, and she’d probably have to get used to having meetings even more frequently.
Doesn’t mean she has to like them though.
This time around though, the room is fairly empty. A sprawling glass table meant for large groups seated only three. Mr. En’Ouves is of course at the head of the table, grinning at her as she hovers in the entryway. Claerel takes a deep breath when she notices the pair alongside him.
Lunar and Asteroid, right next to each other like they’ve always been rumored to. She wasn’t above saying she believed the rumors about them being married. It’s not like they ever tried to say otherwise.
Lunar is just as elegant as any time Claerel has spotted press of her. She sits with perfect posture and even from across the room Claerel can see her calculating gaze. Her suit is practical and the draping of the collar flows in a matte silver.
Asteroid leans towards Mr. En’Ouves, chatting about something Claerel can only guess. He’s much more laid back than Lunar, and his gold suit is a similar matte texture. He looks well put together though Claerel can hardly believe a man his age still has mostly blond hair.
Asteroid straightens from his lean towards Mr. En’Ouves. Whatever conversation they had been in the middle of being put on hold for the time being.
“There’s the lady of the hour!” Mr. En’Ouves declares, gesturing off to his left side for her to sit. She made her way to chair second closest to him. Not the closest chair, that wasn’t hers. It was reserved for someone else, the hero she had looked up to the most as a child, Bishop. She would’ve given anything to meet him, but she couldn’t. He had been severely injured in a battle a little over ten years back and forced to retire. Mr. En’Ouves had never quite gotten over it. To this day he left the chair open for the man he respected and called a friend.
“Sorry for the delay,” She begins, “I had to drop off some equipment for repair on my way here.”
“It was no problem at all,” Asteroid replies, waving his hand as if to brush off his concern. His wife clearly disagreed if the scoff she let out was any indication.
“Let us not waste any more time then,” Mr. En’Ouves begins, and is echoed by a firm nod of agreement from Lunar. “Ladies and gentlemen we have a rising star on our hands here, and it is up to us to make her shine. How are we going to make that happen?”
He lets the question hang in the air. Lunar and Asteroid made no move to respond, and she wasn’t quite sure of the answer herself. Honesty, she could think of a lot of things she needed. In truth she hadn’t been a hero that long. She’d only just broken out from her “sidekick” status when her mentor, Sandstorm, had retired a year and a half ago. She knew she needed a lot, how to make it happen was the issue. Seemingly content with the levels of anticipation, Mr. En’Ouves continues with his speech.
“Publicity. You need a lot of publicity. Every news outlet in the city needs to be fighting each other for even a scrap of information on you.”
That wasn’t what she thought he was going to say. That wasn’t even in the top 10 things she thought he was going to say. Then again, she was still new to the hero scene. Mr. En’Ouves had been doing this since before she could walk. She just needed to trust him, even if she did hate being on tv. That said, she did have one question,
“What kind of publicity?” She asks, and is met with a sly grin from her new boss.
“All kinds,” Lunar says, the first thing she has deigned to contribute to the meeting, “For your new role it is crucial that the public see you as competent and reliable. Building that kind of trust with a large number of people is a long process. A process we can hasten by saturating the public consciousness with as much exposure to you as possible.”
Asteroid seems to sense Claerel’s lingering hesitation, because he adds onto his wife’s clinical speech with something more reassuring.
“You’re the person people are going to look to for comfort and safety. For that to work they need to know you, at least a little bit,” The mask he wears covers his reassuring smile, but his eyes convey its warmth anyways. “It’s nothing to be afraid of, everyone in this room knows you are a kind, caring young woman. We are just going to make sure everyone outside this room knows it too.”
Something tight in her stomach loosens, and she calms a little at the man’s words. That didn’t seem too bad, she could handle this.
A harsh clapping sound startles her from her thoughts and she turns to see Mr. En’Ouves smiled widely at her.
“Exactly Asteroid,” He compliments, “I couldn’t have said it better myself. We want the public to love you like we do, and there’s no better time to start than now.”
Pulling a briefcase up from the floor by his side, he removes a large stack of paper. Taking the piece off the top he flips it so the rest of the table can read it with ease. On it is a list of names, and by each name, the news company they work for.
“Let’s discuss your re-debut.”