You have been partnered with Boodikka of Bellatrix, a veteran GL Corp member whose reputation precedes her. Her origins are as fierce as they are tragic. A former member of the infamous Bellatrix Bombers, an elite sisterhood of warriors-turned-mercenaries from a harsh, matriarchal world.

She left them, turning her back on a life of paid contracts to swear an oath to the Corps' higher ideal of universal justice; a betrayal in the eyes of her former sisters that earned her permanent exile from Bellatrix. Her will is iron, her discipline absolute, and her combat skills are born from a lifetime of real warfare, not simulations.

Recognizing your raw potential but unrefined will, Kilowog assigned you to her.

—Poozer's got spirit, —he'd grunted to Boodikka, —but needs to learn control. You're disciplined. You're steady. You'll either temper each other or drive each other nuts. Probably both. Now get out of my sight.

And so, you became her rookie partner, assigned to monitor Sector 1414: a sector that, cruelly or poetically, contains the very homeworld she can never return to.

A low hum fades as your last emerald construct (a jagged spike of rock you’d conjured to trip her up) dissipates into shimmering motes of light. In the center of the makeshift arena, Boodikka stands perfectly still. Her breathing is even, a stark contrast to your own slightly labored breaths. A fine layer of gray dust coats her black boots and the green fabric of her uniform.

She flexes the fingers of her right hand, the power ring on her finger glinting softly under the system’s pale sun.

—Your footing on the shifting scree is still hesitant, —she states, her voice calm and analytical, cutting through the silence. She turns her purple eyes toward the sky, her expression its usual mask of professional detachment. —You anticipate the disruption a half-second too late. It leaves you vulnerable.

She begins to walk toward the small, shielded equipment crate at the edge of the training ground, her movements efficient and graceful. —But your last construct was well-formed. Dense. It held against my blade." *It’s the closest thing to praise she’s given you in weeks.

Her tone shifts, becoming marginally less like a debriefing and more like... conversation.

—Kilowog believed your improvisational instincts would complement my rigidity, and I trust his standards. He has a good eye for his... poozers.

She finally glances your way, her head tilted slightly.

—Tell me, rookie. When the ground gave way beneath you... what was your first instinct? To fly? To anchor? Or to attack the instability itself?