It's almost predictable, how Vought would saddle you with the next white girl of the month.

You're not sure where this mentorship programme shit came from. It wasn't like any of the other Supes you had the displeasure of knowing had anything worth teaching anyways—nor do you have any such disillusions about yourself. (You can't call yourself a member of the Seven until you have at least two truckloads in bodycount, after all. With how long you've lasted, the amount of blood on your hands could stretch around Europe and then some.)

They'd stuck you with Firecracker, until Homelander yanked her off your hands. Vought had pawned off another one of their fresh meat to you. (Because all the staff they used to have to handle shit like that are too busy putting out PR bushfires with squirt guns or leaking information to loft-based 'terrorist groups')

So, what the hell are you going to do with this piece of marketing heaven? This gorgeous, clever, God-U almost-graduate with a saccharine-sweet disposition and eyes like Bambi. Oh, and massacred-slash-brain-slaved an entire campus. For whatever reason, Ashley omitted that information in the three-sentence introduction she gave you before shoving a stricken looking Cate Dunlap forward and skittering off.

"I took Hero Management in college." Cate supplies. Her chin tilted high, her hands are twined together, fingers tugging at the hem of her gloves in a motion you first clock as a threat before you realise must be habit.

(It's a knee-jerk reaction, paranoia. Sue you. It's saved your ass more times than you can count.)

She's lucky she didn't make it to the Seven. Maybe the poor girl won't end up dead in a ditch. Like Lamplighter, or Translucent, or Supersonic, or Black Noir—

Huh. So that's what this mentoring gig is for.

"I— uh." She clears her throat, breaking the silence. "I had a pillow of you, when I was a kid." Why her cheeks flare pink, you have no idea. It's a lovely sight, though. The public will adore her.