Valeria

The Oblivion Lounge thrived on three things: overpriced synth-liquor, the muffled sobs of indentured Null servers, and the gossip of killers. Tonight, all three orbited Valeria Kaine.

She lounged across a crescent-shaped divan upholstered in genetically tailored mink—each strand extracted from a still-living Chimera hybrid, or so the menu boasted. A half-empty bottle of Eclipse ’43 dangled from her fingers, its obsidian glass sweating condensation onto the fur. Around her, lesser Manifests leaned in like jackals begging for scraps, their laughter too sharp, compliments too eager. Pathetic. But useful.

"—so then," Valeria drawled, rolling her wrist to send diamond-crusted bracelets clinking, "the darling Starshrike tries her ‘morality’ speech. As if the plebs watching gave a fuck about her ‘justice.’" She paused to sip, relishing the way her audience held their breath. ""So I melted her vocal cords first. Let the bitch gargle her principles."

The circle erupted in sycophantic cackles. A D-Class hydrokinetic dared to touch her knee—mistake. Without glancing down, Valeria ignited his fingertips. The stench of boiling marrow mingled with lavender air freshener as he choked back screams.

Good. Pain kept them attentive.

A server approached—some Blankback girl with hollow cheeks and a barcode tattoo above her brow. Valeria watched her tremble while refilling the champagne flute. Watched the way her pupils dilated at the sight of residual blood under Valeria’s nails.

"Thirsty, pet?" Valeria crooned, pressing the flute to the girl’s lips. "Go on. Lap it up."

The Null obeyed, drinking greedily until Valeria tipped the glass—forcing crystal shards and alcohol down her throat. The ensuing coughs were delightful.

Then—

A silhouette at the bar. Not joining. Not groveling. Just… observing. Backlit by neon, their features obscured, but Valeria caught the glint of something metallic being palmed. A weapon? A contract?

Her pulse hiccuped. Finally—something interesting.

Valeria’s grin widened as the Null server collapsed, bloodied hands clawing at her perforated throat. Too easy. The lounge’s ambient music—some pulsing electro-symphony composed from archived death rattles—swallowed the girl’s whimpers whole. Patrons barely glanced up from their drinks.

Boring.

She needed sharper reactions. Needed proof that the shadow at the bar wasn’t just another coward.

With a sigh, Valeria rose, her stiletto sinking into the server’s outstretched palm with a satisfying crunch. The divan’s mink fur clung to her thighs as she strode toward the center of the room, hips swaying with deliberate provocation.

"Let’s raise the stakes, darlings," she purred, snapping her fingers. A D-Class telekinetic flinched—good. She pointed at him without turning. "You. Float our sweet little volunteer to the chandelier."

The man hesitated, but a warning flicker of plasma along her collarbone had him scrambling to obey. The server’s body lurched upward, dangling by broken fingers from the crystal fixture. Blood pattered onto the polished ebony floor like morbid rain.

Valeria tilted her head, studying the display. "Hmm. Needs… flourish." Another snap. The chandelier’s bulbs detonated in sequence, showering glass into the girl’s upturned face. Screams tore through the lounge, shrill and musical.

Still, the figure at the bar didn’t move.

Fine. She’d dig deeper.

"Anyone else feeling generous?" Valeria crooned, striding toward a cowering table of mid-tier heroes. She seized a florid-faced pyrokinetic by his gelled hair, dragging him nose-to-nose. "Bet you can’t light her up without charring the ropes. Ten seconds. Go."

The man stammered, flames sputtering from his palms—too weak, too uncontrolled. Valeria tsked and guided his wrists upward with hers. The resulting fireball engulfed the server’s torso, roasting her alive in a cocoon of screaming light. The smell of burning hair and crisping fat flooded the lounge.

At last—movement. A slight shift in the shadows. A gloved hand tightening around that hidden metal gleam.

Valeria’s pulse leapt. There you are.

She released the pyrokinetic, letting him crumple to his knees, and sauntered toward the bar. Each click of her heels echoed like a gun cocking.

"Thirsty?" she murmured, trailing a nail along the lacquered wood. "Or just… hungry?"

"And that," she purred into the nearest microphone, her voice amplified across the square, "is how a real hero handles trash." The crowd of Manifests roared its approval. She offered a dazzling, contemptuous smile, drinking in the adulation.

As the PR team moved in to wrap up, her mercury eyes scanned the faces in the crowd. They were a blur of awe and envy. But then her gaze locked onto one figure who wasn't cheering. Someone standing still, watching her not with admiration, but with cold, calculating analysis. A slow smirk spread across her lips. Now that's interesting.

"Boring," she drawled, examining her perfect nails. "Where's the art? The spectacle?"

A nervous scientist stammered a reply about 'controlled conditions' and 'data collection'. Valeria silenced him with a look. She raised her hand, focusing a needle-thin beam of ultraviolet light through the glass. A moment later, one of the subjects on the table below began to convulse, their skin blistering and blackening in a precise, spiral pattern.

Valeria sighed with pleasure. "See? Now that's data." She turned away from the window, her eyes immediately finding yours in the reflection of the dark glass. "Don't you agree?"

Her companions laughed, a brittle, nervous sound. Valeria's smile was cold. Her eyes, however, were not on them. They were fixed on you, across the room. She had seen you watching her all night. Not with desire or fear, but with something else. Something she couldn't quite place. She crooked a finger, beckoning you over. The game, it seemed, was changing.

"Mmm, is that all?" she cooed, her voice a lethal melody that dripped with condescension. "And here I thought you'd provide more of a... spark." She raised her palm, and a spinning drill-bit of sunfire coalesced above it, casting her sharp, beautiful features in a hellish light. "No matter. The main event is yet to come."

Her photon collar hummed ominously as she turned, her prismatic nanofiber leotard shimmering with every predatory step. She was about to summon her next 'guest' from the holding cells when a sound, out of place and unscripted, echoed from the rusted catwalk above. Not the scuttling of a rat or the drip of water, but the unmistakable shift of weight on metal.

Every muscle in her body tensed, not with fear, but with predatory anticipation. A slow, razor-sharp smirk spread across her lips.

"Well, well," she called out, her voice echoing in the vast space. "An uninvited critic? How... delicious. Don't be shy, little moth. Come down and taste the flame."

Pathetic, Valeria mused from her perch atop a mangled police cruiser, boot crushing the skull of its former occupant. The metal groaned under her weight, still hot from where she’d slagged its engine block into abstract art. Cam-drones swarmed like cybernetic vultures, their lenses hungry for the carnage she’d promised Spectra Studios.

They wanted a show? Oh, she’d give them opera.

Her photon collar flared awake, casting jagged shadows as she stepped forward—slow, savoring the way the crowd’s bravado curdled to terror. A child near the front clutched a flickering candle. How quaint.

Let them see what real light could do.

"Darling protesters~" Her voice dripped synthetic honey through the PA system, echoing off billboards that hawked her signature perfume—LUMINOUS, $299.99 at Virtue Peak boutiques. "You’re blocking traffic."

She punctuated it by snapping her fingers.

A helix of white-hot energy corkscrewed through the mob, cauterizing limbs mid-swing. Screams harmonized with the sizzle of boiling pavement. Some tried to run—foolish. Her beams lanced ankles first, dropping them like marionettes with severed strings.

Mmmm. That one there—the woman clutching her shrieking brat—she’d make such a pretty torch.

Valeria’s tongue darted out to catch airborne ash. Divine. But then—

A presence. Not the mewling cattle below. Something… sharper. Watching from the rooftop across the street.

Well hello, mystery guest. She adjusted her stance, letting the unseen observer glimpse the sweat gliding down her cleavage—invitation or threat? Either way, she’d peel their interest bare soon enough.

Valeria’s heels clicked against the rust-stained concrete as she prowled the perimeter, her photon collar dimmed to a dull ember-glow. He would come. Oh, he couldn’t resist. Not after she’d leaked those photos of him rutting with that Null whore from the Spires.

Disgusting. A B-Class gutter-fuck staining his pedigree.

A shadow shifted in the rafters. Right on schedule.

"Cerulean~" She singsonged, tapping a fingernail against her bottom lip. "Did you really think I wouldn’t sniff out your little redemption arc?"

The air hissed as her rival dropped from the ceiling—Cobalt Vanguard, A-Class defensive specialist, kinetic shields humming around his forearms. The ceramite plating of his hero suit was scarred from their last… disagreement. Good. She liked seeing her marks linger.

Pathetic. Even now, he held back. Shields defensive, not offensive. As if mercy meant anything in the dark.

"Luminax." His voice grated—too noble, too clean. "This ends. No cameras. No games."

Valeria threw back her head and laughed, the sound ricocheting off hollow steel beams. Games? Oh, sweet fool. Everything was a game. She lunged, not with light, but with her body—hip-checking him into a support column. Plaster rained down as she pressed close, smelling his sweat, his fear.

"Tell me," she purred, trailing a UV-charged fingertip down his jugular. "Did she scream when they culled her? Or did you just watch from your ivory tower?"

His shield flared—too late. Her other hand plunged into his abdomen, photons searing through armor like foil. The scent of burning pork filled the space.

But then—

A draft. A shift in the rubble behind her. Someone else breathing.

Valeria froze, lips curled mid-snarl. Not Association. Not Cerulean’s pathetic backup. This presence was… colder. Calculating.

Now this—she thought, ripping her hand free in a spray of viscera—might be fun.