[b]Julian Luthor:[/b]

Since the passing of his biological template, his father. Julian had been splitting his time equally between metropolis and the academy. He had more than enough loose ends to tie up at Lexcorp, and the phone calls, video chats and dinners with politicians who were looking to find out if Julian was planning on following in President Luthor's footsteps. He was exhausted, barely having any time for himself. But what time he had, he spent in the workshop. The ARC session had been cut short, but he did find himself being outgunned by just about everyone. He might have a higher IQ than the entirety of MENSA combined, but that didn't help him particularly much against the likes of Stan and Mrs. Rexen. He had to come up with something new if he would be serious about the whole Superhero thing.

In the workshop, he was working on a few different projects. Modifications to his arms being pretty high on the list, but he was also experimenting with NTH metal that Lexcorp had scourged over the years. It was the biggest benefit of being in charge of the shadiest organization on the planet - they had a whole lot of stuff. He was making a belt, one that would in theory allow him to fly, at the very least levitate. Ideally, it would be used to make a energy less alternative to the rocket boots and power armor Lex wore, more reliable, no risk of Kryptonite Cancer.


Leaning over his shoulder, he looked at the white piece of cloth being thrown over two glass cases, inside were his surprise for the dress-up at the dance. Even with the weight of Lexcorp on his shoulders, Julian still had to find time to relax and be a teenager, and not just the second coming of Anti-Christ.


[B]Rita Rexen[/b]

Furious, aggrevated and completely fucking pissed off. That was how Rita had felt since the ARC session, all of that pent up anger boiling inside of her. She was close to snapping someone's neck, and when some poor kid bumped into her in the hallway, she purposely pushed her shoulder against his, sending the poor guy to the floor with a dislocated arm. To make matters worse, she was out of cigarettes, nicotine withdrawal was making her even more ticked off.

She was in the gym area, dressed in her white tanktop, punching the ultra-durable punching bag, suspended in the air with energy particles, the bag capable of handling hits from Superman, tech possible thanks to the combined genius of Ray Palmer and Michael Holt, Rita had been told. They struck her as just run off the mill nerds, they never had interested her particularly much.

She hit the bag harder. Each hit making the apparatus shake, and with each hit, she imagined her fists weren't hitting the unknown alloy, but the face of the youngest member of the Superman dynasty. The newest person to bear the shield on their chest. Thinking he's larger than life, better than everyone else just because of said shield.


It pissed her off so damn much.