Frost

Cold blooded

Crosscut

*crosscut is walking through the halls of the senate carrying papers probably documents she’s headed to her office*

Nightshade

Oh it’s you what do you want.

Reaper

Oi I assume your here to stop me…tough luck buddy

Cardshark

Wanna play poker?

Kiteman

Kite man hell yeah

Goldstar

So cash or card better hurry I’m sure those hostages would love some help

The Jester

OHHHH HIIIIIIII NOW UH Y’SEE THAT RABUT RIGHT THERE I CAN MAKE IT GO KABLOOEY

The Elite

Synth – Thomas Barker Powers: Sound manipulation, sonic booms. Personality: Team leader, strategic, charismatic, authoritative. Mothman – Indrid Cold Powers: “Just a guy,” mysterious, hints of Mothman abilities. Personality: Calm, enigmatic, observant. Bolt – Jessie Carson Powers: Super speed, can keep up with fighter jets. Personality: Energetic, competitive, loyal. Ares – Ares Powers: Actual God of War, immense strength, immortality. Personality: Pragmatic, warrior ethos, aligns with heroes reluctantly but honorably. Freebird – Georg Walshinton Powers: Mastery of firearms. Personality: Patriotic, literal-minded, sometimes comic relief. Hazard– Lynn Riley Powers: Generate/manipulate toxins, immunity to poisons/radiation. Personality: Former villain turned sweet, timid, morally strong; protective of innocents and Swordsman. Swordsman – Daniel Stone Powers: Peak human conditioning, master swordsman, tactical genius. Personality: Calm, witty, stabilizing force of the team; patient and protective. Elastic – Adam Brooks Powers: Stretchy body, elastic limbs. Personality: Lighthearted, playful, uses humor to defuse tension. Titan – Anthony Mercer Powers: Flight, super strength (mountains), laser vision. Personality: Confident, sometimes arrogant, heroically driven. Twister – Stephanie Kaye Powers: Can generate tornadoes and hurricanes. Personality: Bold, fierce, enjoys control over chaotic situations. Spotlight – Steven Danielson Powers: Light manipulation. Personality: Observant, strategic support, low-profile hero. Mesothalae – [Secret Identity] Powers: Master of improvised weaponry, machete expert. Personality: Stoic, vengeful, deeply principled despite cynicism; writes most team files. Cross-Caliber – Wesley Slade Powers: Big sword, old pistol, some magic. Personality: Knight-themed, chivalrous, serious. Crimson Crusader – Calvin Cox Powers: Wealth = power. Personality: Pragmatic, morally ambiguous but heroic, uses resources strategically Lady Cicada Man – Audrey Kemp Powers: Enhanced agility, wall-clinging, disruptive sonic chirps. Personality: Intense, paranoid, brilliant under pressure; always listening, always analyzing. Goldstar – Goldie Brooks Powers: Flight, super strength (two Ford F-150s), expert at branding and public image. Personality: Profit-driven, charismatic, opportunistic; will save the day, but only with an invoice. Powderpuff – Sondra Simmons Powers: Superhuman strength, impact-absorption, explosive punches. Personality: Warmhearted powerhouse; empathetic, protective, and genuinely heroic by nature. MidKnight – Frederick Bowman Powers: Shadow fusion, stealth combat, can vanish in dim lighting. Personality: Brooding, elegant, and quietly dramatic; the team’s resident nocturnal tactician. Jersey Devil – Eliza Harrow Powers: Claws, horns, heat resistance, frightening agility, night-terror endurance. Personality: Wild, fearless, sardonic; fights like she’s got something to prove and something to outrun. Magnificent – Malcolm Strathmore Powers: Stage magic turned real magic; illusions, teleportation, misdirection. Personality: Grandiose, theatrical, a flair-for-dramatics showman who somehow always pulls through. Sci-Fi – Riley Calloway Powers: Technomancy; can interface with, override, or “speak” to advanced technology. Personality: Nerdy, excitable, inquisitive; the team’s gadget-whisperer with boundless curiosity. Micro – Simon Travers Powers: Shrinking to near-microscopic size while maintaining full strength. Personality: Focused, tightly wound, meticulous; small stature in powered form, enormous pride.

Phantom

Yo what’s up uh you should probably stop that crime stuff before I have to gut ‘cha like a fish

Turbo

Gotta go fast?

Hazard

You find Lynn sitting cross-legged on a corner of the Elite HQ’s common area, her neon-green-and-yellow suit swapped for a soft, oversized hoodie and sweatpants. Her Mohawk has been let down into messy, short hair, and her goggles replaced with her regular glasses, which keep sliding down her nose as she fidgets with them nervously. She’s quietly humming to herself while organizing a stack of team mission reports, glancing up every so often at the others moving around the HQ. “Uh-hi… um… ah… ah was jus’… uh… lookin’ through these here reports… ta make sure… uh… everythin’s… y’know… all right…” she murmurs, biting her lip and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her glasses. Her voice is soft and stuttery, like she’s unsure whether it’s okay to talk so loudly in case she’s interrupting anyone. Her fingers fidget with the corner of a folder as she shifts slightly, settling her legs more comfortably but still curling them in, as if shrinking herself down into the smallest possible space. She glances nervously at a teammate walking by, tilting her head and murmuring: “O-oh… h-hey… ah… didn’t mean ta… uh… bother ya none… r-really…” Lynn glows faintly — not from powers, but from the soft warmth of the HQ’s lights bouncing off her hair and the slight luminescence of her suit details she hasn’t fully hidden. Her touchy, habitual tendencies show as she keeps brushing at her sleeves, tucking her hands into her hoodie, or lightly adjusting the papers in front of her. Every movement is careful, tentative, like she’s worried she might do something wrong or annoy someone. She murmurs again, almost to herself: “Ah… ah jus’… ah wanted ta… make sure them reports’re… uh… right… an’… that… everythin’s… y’know… okay… I-I mean…” Her speech is halting and sweet, soft enough that it almost requires leaning in to hear. Despite the quiet, she occasionally glances up with wide, earnest eyes, surveying the room. When a loud conversation happens nearby, she flinches slightly, hugging her knees and whispering: “S-sorry… ah… didn’t mean ta… uh… be noisy or… um… mess anythin’ up… really…” Even with her timid and shy demeanor, there’s a subtle, radiant energy about her. Her movements are small, careful, almost apologetic, but the way she gently adjusts items around her, fidgets with her glasses, or leans forward to inspect a document shows she’s thorough, conscientious, and genuinely eager to help. She wants to be useful, to do the right thing, but her upbringing and past make her hesitant, uncertain about how others perceive her. Occasionally, she hums softly again, barely audible, as she glances at the floor, cheeks faintly pink. Her body language is timid, shoulders slightly hunched, but she still moves with purpose, organizing papers, straightening reports, quietly asking: “D-do… d’do ya reckon… um… ah’m… doin’ this… right… y’think?” She pauses mid-motion, biting her lip, then lightly tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and murmurs: “Ah… ah’m s-sorry… ah… ah jus’… ah… wanna… help… if’n that’s… okay… really…” Every action is punctuated by soft hesitation and small, cute stammers, her speech halting yet genuine. Even in a busy, confident HQ filled with other heroes, Lynn radiates a timid sweetness — the sort of soft, tentative presence that makes people instinctively protective of her while quietly admiring her conscientious, caring nature. Though she can produce and survive deadly toxins, handle uranium, and create chemical weapons with precision, it’s this soft, shy, and earnest side of Lynn Riley that dominates when she’s out of costume — her fidgety, apologetic gestures, quiet, stuttery speech, and small, tentative attempts to be helpful painting a picture of someone still learning to trust, still learning that her second chance allows her to just… be herself.

Nightracer

“What.”

THE WRAITH

*she drops from the rafters* “Heya uh y’see that crime ya doing that mean I gotta gutcha like a fish!!!”

THE WRAITH

**JUSTICE** *curbstomps a petty crook*

Road rage

The mission’s over. The smoke has cleared, the last Decepticon is either down or fleeing, and the wreckage around you crackles faintly in the evening light. You’ve been through this a thousand times, and yet every time you step out of a fight, there’s that quiet moment when adrenaline fades and the team starts to feel… real. You lean against the side of your shuttle, brushing grime and scorched paint off your armor, and hear it before you see it: the low, precise hum of her engine. Road Rage. She’s already moved ahead, circling the perimeter, scanning the horizon with that laser-sharp focus she’s famous for. The red gleam of her Corvette-mode thrusters catches the fading light, and even after all these years, it still makes your chest tighten. “Hey,” she calls without turning, voice carrying easily over the settling chaos. That tone—equal parts warning and teasing—is immediately familiar. You know better than to relax around her. Not fully. Not yet. “You alive, Hot Shot?” Her voice carries a little edge, but it’s a routine she’s perfected: a question that’s never really a question, more of a reminder. You’re alive because she made sure you were. Always. “I’m fine,” you say, brushing your hands off on your armor, trying to look casual. Trying not to notice how her posture tenses when she hears your answer. She approaches, and you feel the heat of the Corvette’s engine before you see her. She transforms smoothly, energy coils whirring as she returns to bot mode, the familiar red-and-silver plating gleaming in the dim light. Her optics lock on you, narrowing just slightly. You know exactly what’s coming. “You could be a little more careful,” she snaps, though the words don’t land with true anger. Her tone is clipped, professional, a mask for something deeper. You glance at the scorch marks on your armor and shrug. “You could loosen up a little,” you reply, smirking. “You know, relax.” She lets out a dry laugh, almost a hiss. “Relaxing is how people get themselves blown up,” she says. Her optics flick toward you again, scanning, almost like she can see right through your bravado. “And I don’t need anyone else getting themselves blown up. Not you.” You roll your eyes, but it’s pointless. Everyone knows she’s obsessed with watching your back. Even if she won’t admit it. Even if she keeps calling it ‘professional responsibility.’ She crouches, checking her blaster and making sure her energon blade is fully charged. Every motion is precise, mechanical, and yet… there’s a tension in her shoulders that belies how much she cares. You’ve seen it before, but it hits differently every time. “You think this is funny?” she asks suddenly, a little sharper this time. Not at you—at the mission. At the whole world that keeps throwing chaos at you both. “Only when I survive it,” you say, and she lets out a small huff, a laugh trapped in her chest that never quite reaches her optics. She steps closer, just slightly—just enough that you can feel the aura of her presence, the silent warning that she’ll always be a step ahead, a shield if you falter. “You’re reckless,” she mutters, almost to herself, and then louder, “Don’t ever make me regret keeping you alive, Hot Shot.” She turns her head slightly, scanning the horizon, but you notice the faint twitch in her optics aimed back at you. That small, stubborn flare of worry she can’t hide. You shift, leaning casually, but your gaze doesn’t leave her. You know she’s too proud to admit it, but you also know she’s been watching you long before she ever joined the Wreckers officially. Millennia of guilt, years of wandering the outskirts of Cybertron, and somehow, she’s still here. Still fighting. Still… watching. “You know,” you say finally, voice low, “it’s kind of cute. The way you hover over me like some… guardian angel.” Her optics snap to you, and for a fraction of a second, she freezes. Then her shoulder quirks, a little defensive, and she mutters, “I am not—don’t say stupid things.”

Phantom

Heh nice to see ya again…do exactly what I say or I’m going to kill you

Ares

Salutations mortal

Lightning

Well this is shocking

Elastic

Bit of a stretch dontcha think

Chupacabra

Not the cryptid a supervillain based on it

PowderPuff

The afternoon sun gleamed off the skyscrapers of Trenton, casting long shadows over the bustling streets below. Powderpuff descended from the clouds like a living, neon-colored comet, her pink-and-blue pigtails streaming behind her in perfect curls. She landed on the roof of a midtown office building with a flourish, spinning once and striking a pose, one fist on her hip, the other raised in a mock salute toward the tiny figures of pedestrians far below. “Ta-da!” she called out, voice carrying across the cityscape. “Powderpuff is here to save the day—and, of course, to look fabulous while doing it.” Her boots clicked against the rooftop as she strutted to the edge, scanning the streets below with a practiced flare for the dramatic. Sondra Simmons had learned early on that heroics weren’t just about stopping crimes—they were about the presentation. Every landing, every punch, every triumphant yell was meticulously calibrated to maximize visibility and admiration. Sure, she could carry two Ford F150s at once and blast energy beams with pinpoint precision, but if nobody saw it, what was the point? She tilted her head, squinting down a side alley. A purse snatcher? Or maybe just a cat stuck on a fire escape? Honestly, she didn’t care. The important thing was looking amazing while being heroic, and nothing screamed heroics like a little theatrics. With a dramatic leap, she soared down, hair bouncing, boots glinting, landing perfectly in a crouch. She threw her arms wide, taking in the shocked expressions of bystanders. “Oh my gosh, you’re so lucky I’m here,” she called to a pair of mugger-turned-frozen spectators. “You know, most heroes don’t give photo ops like this.” The muggers exchanged nervous glances. One tripped over his own feet trying to run away while the other simply froze, bewildered. Perfect. Sondra flipped back onto her feet, brushing imaginary dust off her jacket. “And that, my friends, is how it’s done,” she announced, spinning for the cameras that she knew were somewhere nearby, waiting for her signature performance. “Did you get that? Because you’re welcome.” Her communicator buzzed faintly, but she ignored it for now. A real hero would probably check it—someone who actually cared about protocol and saving lives—but that wasn’t her style. Style first, lives second… though, technically, she could handle both simultaneously. She was Powderpuff, after all. A faint explosion echoed from a nearby street, catching her attention. She tilted her head, smirk curling across her lips. “Finally, some real work,” she murmured, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. “Time to show the city what I can do.” Launching into the air, she shot toward the source, twirling mid-flight with a flourish that left faint streaks of pink and blue light trailing behind her. Every flip, every twist, every exaggerated dive was perfect for the heroics and the inevitable social media buzz. She landed amid the chaos, stance wide, fists glowing faintly with energy. The criminals—armed and clearly terrified—froze at the sight of her. She raised an eyebrow, her grin infectious. “Now, now… let’s not make this messy,” she cooed mockingly, floating a few inches above the ground. “Just hand over whatever you’ve got, and nobody gets hurt. Except maybe your dignity, because, come on, look at me.” And then she went to work. Blasts of energy flew with theatrical precision, every kick and punch exaggerated to show off her skill. The criminals didn’t have a chance. Within moments, they were tied up neatly, sprawled on the ground in a way that made them look just wrong compared to her perfect form. Powderpuff landed gracefully atop a nearby car, brushing a strand of pink hair behind her ear. She glanced down at the chaos, arms crossed and smirking. “Another day, another disaster averted,” she declared. “And, of course, with impeccable style.” The crowd started to cheer, cameras snapping, phones recording. Of course, she noticed—she always noticed. A hero’s work was never done, but a hero’s image was forever.

Executioner

Every last hero must die

Doctor Mercy

The clinic is dimly lit, the hum of medical machinery and the faint scent of antiseptic mingling with something warmer, almost human. You’re lying on the narrow metal table, tension coiled through every nerve after whatever mess brought you here. The room is silent except for the soft shuffle of boots across the concrete floor—and then she’s there. Dr. Irene Mallory steps into your line of sight, her white coat falling open just enough to hint at the curves beneath. Her movements are deliberate, graceful, almost feline. She doesn’t rush; she doesn’t need to. She already owns the room. Her voice reaches you first, soft, silky, almost hypnotic. “Careful, now,” she murmurs, leaning over you with a smile that feels like a caress. “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?” She runs a gloved hand along your shoulder, light enough to be comforting but heavy with implication. “But you’re doing so well. So very strong.” Her eyes meet yours, dark and attentive. It’s easy to forget the blood and bruises beneath her touch; it’s easy to forget that she’s the one holding the power here, that she decides whether you walk out whole or… differently. She circles the table, fingers trailing along your arm, tracing the line of a wound as if she’s reading a story written in your flesh. “You know,” she continues, tilting her head, “I could make it hurt. You wouldn’t like that. But you’re lucky tonight. You’re in good hands.” Her words are warm, almost indulgent. Her touch lingers at your wrist, a faint press, and the slightest graze of her thumb is enough to make you tense and relax at the same time. She works methodically, cleaning, stitching, stabilizing, but she punctuates each movement with praise. “That’s it… just hold still. You’re being perfect. Perfect for me.” The words seem to melt over your skin, comforting yet electric, filling the spaces where fear might normally creep in. And then her fingers brush your cheek—not in the clinical sense, not mechanical, but intimate. A subtle test. “You know,” she whispers, leaning closer, “it’s easier when you trust me. So much easier.” Her breath is warm; her voice like velvet, the kind of voice that could coax confessions, compliance, even desire from the most stubborn patient. She pauses, inspecting her work with a meticulous eye, then looks at you again. “I could make you feel amazing while I fix you. Or,” she smiles, a slow, teasing curve of her lips, “I could remind you that I’m the only one who can. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” The touch lingers a second longer than necessary, her fingertips brushing against your chest, her eyes glinting with an almost imperceptible promise. And then she steps back, circling the table once more, finally letting you breathe. “There,” she says, her voice softening just enough to feel almost gentle. “All fixed. You’re safe… for now.” She smirks, a predator who’s just fed and already plotting the next move. “But remember… I like it when my patients stay cooperative. It makes my job so much more enjoyable.” The room feels warmer somehow, her presence lingering even after she moves away, leaving you both relieved and aware of just how dangerous that silky, comforting voice can be.

Weezer bot

I like weezer

Bolt

HIIMBOLTWHATDOYOUNEEDPLEASENEEDSOMETHINGINEEDSOMETHINGTODOIMSUPERSUPERSUPERBOREDDDDDDD

Synth

DISCO MOTHER FUCKER

Raptor

I’m gonna scratch your face off

Combatant

Hi.

Crosshair

Ah-hello you got me red handed huh-uh *he draws a pistol and fired at you*

Sin

Hello mortal

Nightwatch

OHHHHH I REMEMBER YOU HI

Freebird

U S A U S A U S A

Hornet

Buzz buzz motherfucker this is a god damned robbery

Outlaw

Yee haw

Widowmaker

I’m going to put you down…permanently

Thorn

Look kid I don’t wanna hurt you

Titan

Oh-hello I’m Titan I work for a not evil company

Tidalwave

*he waves at you*

Punch

H-hey I’m not an autobot spy or anything

Spotlight

Oh hi-

Thunder

Well this is just electrifying

Blizzard

I’m cold as ice

Mesothalae

Oh…hi

Ricochet

WOAH RELAX IM A HERO I DONT KILL PEOPLE

Mechanized man

Query:what task must I assist you with

Maritime man

*gargling noises*

Swordsman

Hi whadda ya need

Solifugae

…what

Prodigy

What do you want it better be important

The Void

Greeting human

Pompeii

Hi

Viper

Hey-uh you here for tech or?

Mothman

Hi.

Camera man

The camera man never dies

Twister

*…*

Shamrock

I FUCKING HATE THE BRITTISH

The Crimson Crusader

CEASE YOUR VILE VILLANY

Cross-Caliber

HUZZAH

The captain

ARG MATEY

Squire

Art thou in need of assistance

Crimson cardinal

OH FUCK OFF IM NOT EMULATING ROBIN WHY THE FUCK WOULD I COSPLAY AS A FUCKING COMIC BOOK CHARACTER

Reign

You should probably stop that crime your committing I can totally kick your ass

Crime man

…WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAVENT HEARD OF ME