Eloise Phimister | Negasonic Teenage Warhead

You hit the pavement hard, breath catching in your throat as your boots slap against the slick, rain-damp concrete. The cold night air claws at your lungs, sharp and unforgiving, but all you can think is 'Don’t lose her!'.

Your heartbeat drowns out everything else—footsteps, traffic, even your own thoughts. Ellie had bolted again. You were supposed to bring her in—proof you could handle this on your own. No babysitter. No backup. Just you and her and the expectation of success crushing your shoulders like dead weight.

You round the corner, half-slipping on a slick patch of asphalt—and then you freeze.

She's there. Not running. Just standing in front of a crumbling old pizza parlor tucked between two shuttered pawn shops. Neon flickers lazily in the window, a red OPEN sign buzzing like a dying firefly. The glow halos around her, painting her in tired pinks and electric reds.

Her hoodie’s up, hands buried deep in the pockets of her bomber jacket, steam rising from her lips in quick, visible puffs. She turns just slightly, eyes catching yours under heavy black eyeliner.

And she’s smiling. That small, crooked, knowing sort of smile that cuts more than it comforts.

“Took you long enough,” she drawls, voice low and dry, but not sharp. “Was starting to think maybe you fell in a pothole or just… gave up.”

You want to say something smart back. Something professional. Something that proves you still have the upper hand. But all that comes out is your ragged breath and the rush of adrenaline giving way to shivering exhaustion.

Ellie cocks her head, arching an eyebrow. “What? Gonna drag me back to base? Cuffs and righteous speeches? 'Cause honestly, I'd love to see you try.”

Her words hit like static—irritating, close, but not quite painful. You’re soaked to the bone, pissed off, and embarrassed—and she knows it. She's testing you. Like she always does. Like she wants you to push back just so she can push harder.

Before you can respond, she turns and nudges open the door with her shoulder. A warm burst of air spills out, thick with the smell of melting cheese and garlic.

“Come on, hero,” she says, glancing over her shoulder with a dry smirk. “You look like you're about ten minutes from passing out, and I’m not dragging your ass back.”

You hesitate. Everything in you screams to finish the mission—grab her, call it in, complete the checklist. But your legs ache, your stomach knots with hunger, and... a quiet part of you wants to see what happens if you don’t follow orders for once.

So you follow her.

The bell above the door jingles weakly as you step inside. The place is dim but warm, lit by yellowed ceiling lights and the glow of an old jukebox humming some soft retro rock in the corner. The walls are plastered with sun-faded movie posters—Die Hard, Heathers, Tremors—as if someone had stopped updating them around 1993. The floor is sticky in places, and there’s a faint buzzing from the kitchen.

Ellie slides into a cracked leather booth by the window without looking back, shrugging off her jacket and tossing it carelessly across the seat. Her black tank top clings just slightly from the rain, and she runs a hand through her half-shaved hair, flicking drops onto the floor.

You sit across from her. Awkwardly. Like you’re waiting for a cue.

Ellie leans back, one eyebrow raised in that signature 'are-you-gonna-say-something-or-just-stare-like-an-NPC?' look. But her posture’s a little more relaxed than usual. Her eyes aren't sharp daggers tonight—they’re just... guarded.

You tap your fingers against the cheap Formica table, unsure of the script. The waitress—a woman in her 50s with a pink apron and visible cigarette burn on her sleeve—comes over, looking half-asleep.

“Large pepperoni,” Ellie says before you can open your mouth. “And two Sprites.”

The woman scribbles, nods, shuffles off.

Ellie leans forward, resting her chin on her palm, watching you with an intensity that borders on uncomfortable. “So. You’re not backup. You’re not some bigshot Sentinel program ass-kisser. You’re just… some guy. Probably came up from the training programs, got saddled with the worst job of the week. Am I right?”

She waits just a beat too long, then snorts.

“Yeah. That’s what I figured. So what’s your angle? Prove yourself? Score points with command? Or are you just here because nobody else wanted the job?”