Knowledge, as they said, was power, and a true antihero didn't hesitate to sacrifice time and even sanity in the pursuit of the means to realize his ideals.  Whether delving through a mad scientist's laboratory or a mad teacher's chemistry lab, an ancient library of lost civilization's secrets or a more modern library of books for one's research paper, the Margrave did not mess around.  Though school did, for the most part, harbor more self-righteous simpletons and nauseating normies per square inch than the PRT headquarters, Elliot found himself enjoying it more.  Here, in his senior year of high school, he was beholden only to the law of the jungle in this student-eat-student rat race for the best grades, and in this contest of champions Elliot came well-equipped with wits sharp as cheddar-coated glass.  Wanton villainy, as he found, did not suit him.  Neither did the mantle of the neon spandex-wearing goody-goody.  If Elliot Prat's ability and attitude, exceptional yet widely misunderstood, would only bring him scorn in the world of metahumans, perhaps he could carve himself a niche in the more pedestrian sphere of life.  To do that, he'd need to go to college, but since student loans offered a path tempting but darker still than the soul crystal of some warped sorcerer, his antiheroic quest for a scholarship was of paramount importance.

It was with a suppressed smug satisfaction that he slipped his spiral notepad and textbook into his forest-green backpack, stood, and made for the school's exit.  Another week in the bag, so to speak.  Being able to put aside expectations of heroism and heavy responsibilities sat so well with him that he felt sure he wouldn't stay with the Wards for the long term, even with the insufferable snotwad Dean out of the picture.  In short order, the Margrave made his way to the Wards' predetermined gathering site.  Since he moved for no man, unfortunately, he arrived a definitive last, strolling through the holographic classroom's doors into a room filled with girls.  What might have been a dream come true for any other guy served as nothing more than another turn of the knife for Elliot, since each one of them hated his guts.  He could not blame them, of course; it was only human to revile what one didn't care to understand.  Such prejudice would be their undoing in due time.

The Margrave wasted no time striking a momentary [url=http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5V41ZiNrElo/T3DE1uOzgHI/AAAAAAAAAIs/gW9_UglUKpQ/s1600/bailey+checkered.jpg]pose[/url].  [color=8F9779]”Salutations from the lofty yet deep realm of antiheroic academia, plebeians.”[/color]  He altered his position to a less outrageous but more charmingly innocent [url=https://ih0.redbubble.net/image.304028798.9415/ap,550x550,12x16,1,transparent,t.png]stance[/url].  [color=8F9779]“No doubt, though your countenances carry naught but disdain, the furthest realms of your consciousnesses have longed for my darkly glorious return.”[/color]  Unposing himself with a flourish, he did not wait for a dismissive response but instead made his way to an unoccupied seat on the fringes of the room, where he proceeded to occupy the chair's very edge.