Emma Davis
Staten Island
For as amazing and wondrous as they were, there were many times throughout the average week when Emma wished she had never been cursed with her damn superpowers. Really, it wasn't even the superpowers themselves so much as it was the type of superpowers that her sorry ass had gotten stuck with. Illusions were cool and all, until everybody cottoned on and realized that the massive assault rifle in her arms or the collapsing ceiling above their heads, wasn't actually real, and that the only thing between her face and their fist was whatever tool she could rip out of her jacket. Her face was no more resistant to being pulverized than the average human's face, and many people possessed fists strong enough to pulverize thirteen average human faces in a punch. She wasn't a fighter, never had been. All that she had was a happy facility for providing support and backup for people who were fighters, which left actual combat a great distance away from her job description. There had been attempts, and those attempts had resulted in failures, miserable failures. Until God answered her wishes and gave her something actually useful like telekinesis, her conflict with superhumans that held the ability to collapse a house was best minimized.
As such, it was mildly infuriating to be berated like a little kid for not intervening in a stupid argument perpetrated by two people with more than enough power behind their respective fists to tear her head clean off of her torso. And by mildly infuriating, she meant very infuriating. Growing a spine was nice and all, but if anything, people generally grew more ticked off when a stranger intervened in their private business, and besides, if he (or she, it was probably possible with some shiny new voice-transforming tech) was so concerned about "sowing discord", then he should've ended it personally instead of making a Sunday School lecture out of it all. Of course, she would never tell any of this to his face; whatever face he happened to possess was hidden behind a massive gray helmet, and the massive emblem on the accompanying suit of armor was enough to tell her that this was not somebody that she wanted to talk back to. This was One, the legendary leader of the Cabal, the guy who's last public appearance was at a Bernie Sanders rally four years ago. She probably should've been grateful to have the opportunity to breathe the same air as him, and while true, his mere presence was enough to keep her silently gawking at his massive figure out of pure starstruck-ness as he went on with his rant, she still couldn't help but feel irked at the sight of that stupid "1" splashed across his chest. You'd think a hero of his stature could afford a better paint job.
There was only so long she could glower at One and mumble vague 5/10 insults under her breath though; they had a seminar to get on with now that the fight had been sufficiently broken up, and their gracious teacher and host was none other than one mammoth redheaded woman by the name of Gauss, a voice and a name that she vaguely remembered from two days ago. She had been the one giving triage instructions. You could tell that she was qualified by the way that she earned a quiet, polite conversation and the great gift of a gentle shoulder pat from One, a clear indication that he held more respect for her than any other person in the room. Combined. Thankfully, despite the honors and praise, she seemed to keep a sense of humor, which would probably make this seminar a bit more breathable. One seemed to be trying his hardest to achieve the opposite effect by moving to silently stand next to the doorway as Gauss strolled ahead of the crowd, but hey, out of sight, out of mind.
Unfortunately, the sudden cameo from the great Cabal King was far from the last disorienting experience that this seminar seemed to have in store. First, there was Gauss walking straight towards the side wall and peeling a whole chunk of it off, revealing a massive compartment stacked to the brink of overflow with a mixture of padding, a few training weapons, some expensive-looking BDSM equipment, and what Emma could've sworn were three bowling balls. Yet, before she could even register that, she was forced to register the sight of a vaguely familiar chick materializing out of absolutely nowhere at Gauss' right hand side, creating a gust of air aggressive enough to cause her hair to flutter slightly despite sitting a good dozen feet away. On top of that, she was then forced to contend with the sight of Chris practically barging in through the nearest door, looking just as disheveled as ever with a movie-cliché level "Am I late?". However, as her eyes swiveled to watch Chris' untimely breakthrough, they caught another sight entirely; Ophiuchia taking a stroll of her own outside the facility, but not before slapping Jack dead-on in the ass with a light smack that was enough to make her wince in her sea--
And then, a blur of movement in the corner of her eye.
Jumping slightly out of surprise, Emma turned to face forward, only to be met with the sight of a fist hovering mere inches away from the end of her nose. The sight was enough to make her give an involuntary yelp of shock, sliding backwards to put some space between herself and the knuckles to the point where her palms bracing against the bench's wooden surface were the only thing preventing her from losing her balance and tipping over the back. The extra gap gave her enough space to tilt her head up and meet eyes with a visibly shaken Hans, already paling over and beginning to stammer as his arm began to droop and his fist began to uncurl. The move was so sudden, so out-of-the-blue, but beyond a pair of widened eyes and a slight whimper of fear, there was no sign that she was even ruffled by the incident. She didn't feel that ruffled, just...just...tired. Overwhelmed. Everything that had happened post-Hans-conversation felt like one big surreal fever dream, with gusts of air and painted "1's" and ass-smacks all coming together into one massive blur. She was almost glad when Hans' fist turned into an offer to help her up; if she tried to stand up herself, she wasn't quite certain how long she would stay up.
As he took her hand in his and helped her up to her feet, she couldn't help but recoil slightly at the sheer warmth of it. It made hers feel cold, clammy, almost icy in comparison. Even as the grip broke and Emma murmured a quick "Thanks" in his direction, she could still feel where his nervous sweat had made the back of her hand slippery, even after an attempt at wiping it clean on her leggings as she walked. The two of them quickly went in opposite directions, Hans making his way to a nearby mat while she made a beeline for the back of the crowd, deciding to stay standing beside some weirdo in a medieval suit of armor with her arms crossed. She didn't really dwell on the potential cosplayer as she usually would though; she was busy mulling over everything else that had happened in the past minute or so. Maybe not perverted ass smacks and brewing Amazonian catfights, but certainly what she had learned, and what she had just experienced. The first time Hans had lunged for her, she had panicked. She had thrown her arms up, wondering if she was gonna survive or not. Now, after watching Hans experience breakdown after breakdown, after realizing the fact that he didn't possess a single memory of them, this whole near-fisticuffs encounter felt, well, tame. Had she already gotten used to Hans completely going off the rails? Or was she just burned out from everything that had been going on as of late, and in desperate need of a break where she could sort out all of her ever-growing laundry list of thoughts? She didn't really know, and as she gave a blank, vacant, tuned-out look somewhere to the right of Gauss, it was clear that she was already mentally clocking out of the seminar so that she could find the answer.
