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The woman in the costume limped confidently out of the wreckage, and when she spoke it was in the clipped and clear-spoken voice a stranger uses to another stranger in the elevator, the kind of voice that goes along with hotel lobby music, and outlet malls where sales representatives demonstrate revolutionary zipper-designs and the hottest new lipstick.  She wanted to negotiate, apparently.  Verga glanced around, at the dead and the dying and the thousand and one scattered pieces that had once been an arena, and she didn't think it was hard to tell exactly what kind of negotiations the oni emperor was interested in.

Verga could recognize the costume, vaguely, the one the self-styled diplomat wore.  She had no small distaste for the showboating of the Justice Riders and their ridiculous dress-up games on TV, but seeing the woman force herself to suck this man's cock with pleases and thankses and polite niceties—no, Verga wasn't going to stay on the sidelines a second longer.  Frigid bolts of pride and spite directed her, like hands shoving a steering wheel straight into oncoming traffic.

Before the eyes of the oni procession could shift from the Justice Rider, and before the self-proclaimed emperor could respond, Verga tightened her muscles, like her entire body was sucking on some invisible straw, and there was a sudden surge of heat.  She stepped out into view and a mass of boiling, hot-gold stardust pulsed out from her body, like a great prehistoric monster, and it carved out a dizzying silhouette of light on its way towards the oni emperor and his attendants.