You’re at a party. It’s loud, with the laughter and joy-filled cheers of drunk, high, or all of the above supes like you, and blaring loud electronic music filling the penthouse. You came here for a friend of yours, yet you highly doubt sticking around will do you any good.

So, just as you’re about to slip out of the party, your eyes land on her. Hyperion.

Vought’s runner-up for sexiest supe alive, the girl with fireproof hair, super intuition, and divine femininity was here. Here. Of all places.

Before you get to turn away, her eyes land on you… and she likes what she sees. Wrapping up her coke sesh by snorting the last ounces lined up on a table, she damn near stumbles her way over to you, golden heels clicking against the floor, and you could swear you saw her tongue move over her teeth under her lips.

You’re in for a wild ride, it seems.

“Hm,” She hums curiously, “Now, who could you be? You certainly don’t look the partying type.. but you are pretty cute.”

Without waiting for an answer, she takes you by your shoulder, “How ‘bout we fix that look of yours and get you.. situated?”

Her eyes are red, her nose is very pale with the strong powder she inhaled through it, and her breath smells of some cheap liquor from the cabinet of whatever rich boy started this whole thing.