[centre][h2]The Zenith - Xoxi’s Repurposed Meeting Room[/h2] [h1]Above Boston[/h1] [sub]21st January, 2011[/sub][/centre] Shortly after setting up the little makeshift game party, a head poked its way through the door. This was quickly followed by a second. Gestalt and Septima - or Nola and Kairi, given their lack of costumes - smiled when they saw their teammate. “Hey!” Gestalt yelled, slightly louder than she anticipated. “I heard you got out of that little hamster cage they had you locked up in. I know the feeling. They did it to me, too, the first time I absorbed a villain’s power.” She scoffed. “As if we are seriously going to blow something up just cause we touched someone evil.” Nola was the more respectable-looking of the two, but also the more boring. Her outfit consisted of a loose-fitting white blouse and denim jeans. On the other hand, Kairi looked like a burst mattress - a walking pile of dark green hoodie and uncombed hair. Her top actually looked several sizes too large for her, although whether this was intentional or not was something only she knew. Although, whether she cared was another matter entirely. As her eyes looked between the console, the screen, and her newfound friend, there was a flash of fierce competitiveness and intense happiness. “Alright, we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. Be right back, gonna go steal snacks off the heroes.” A flared portal of deep crimson opened beside her, and she hopped through. It closed with a snap, leaving the faint smell of charcoal and brimstone behind. With a chuckle, Nola turned to Xoxi. “That’s the most animated I’ve seen her for a while.” She walked over and sat down beside the girl. “I heard you saw Dr Yamada today. She’s pretty awesome, huh? One of the best the PRT’s got - and not just around here.” She leaned closer, with a conspiratory whisper. “I heard she’s so good, she can make people untrigger.” [@Banana] [hr] [centre][h2]The Circus Maximus[/h2] [h1]Victory Road[/h1] [sub]21st January, 2011[/sub][/centre] Watching his opponent charge towards him brought back fond memories. Well, ‘fond’ memories. He’d done this song and dance many a time. The last 7 or 8 years of his life had been almost constant combat. Sometimes with capes, sometimes with regular gangland crooks. Sometimes he had powers, others he’d had to make do with a gun and a couple of idiots. If he was thankful to Gladius for anything, it was that. Whetstone had the power to sharpen blades to a perfect edge. But she’d honed him, too. Polished his instincts. The powers were a nice touch, too. He watched every single tell, taking in each one with perfect clarity. She was going to strike with her lef- No. A feint. Clever. An open-palm strike, low down. With the intent to wind and take him out of the fight. A simple blow like that wouldn’t be nearly enough force to do so, however. She didn’t seem the type to be overconfident with her attacks. Still, maybe she’d miscalculated something. Maybe she was just desperate. It didn’t really matter. When she was a foot or two away, he raised his right hand and did the one thing no-one expected him to do. “I concede,” he declared. Both hands moved to intercept the strike on his midsection, meeting Automaton’s open palm with two of his own. Something moved underneath his hands, though. His flesh rippled even through the gloves. A wave of sudden force blasted into him, causing his eyes to go wide. The wave lifted him off the ground, blew both arms straight out to the side and sent him arcing into the bars of the cage with a metallic clatter. Everyone in attendance was trying to figure out what had happened - whether the fight was still on. No-one wanted to face the truth of what him conceding meant for them. Sickle slid down the bars, coming to a rest in a sitting position on the floor of the arena. His palms burned from the heat generated by whatever device she’d used. Back ached. A rib felt like it could well have been fractured, despite intercepting the blow. He winced. Arrogance. It’d cost him. Still, could've been worse. Resting on the floor, a harsh chuckle rose up from him, turning into a full-blown and genuine laugh. The crowd paled. Almost everyone in the room had bet on him. Some more than most. With a violent surge, the collected mass roared and howled a torrent of abuse - as well as anything else they could get their hands on - at the hooded man. Whetstone and Praetor remained stony-faced. Maxwell crumbled a betting slip in his hand with a look of sheer and utter hatred, and Pipeline shared in the laughter. He didn’t bet on matches in his own circus, after all. Didn’t want anyone thinking the results were rigged. [@Migyudon][@Duoya][@Lasrever][@Old Amsterdam][@SkinnyTy][@PlatinumSkink]