Roy G Bivolo
A single bead of warm water unstopped itself from Roy's inner ear when Skeets came skittering in with a mission for Superman. When Julian accepted the mission, never acknowledging that they were many orders of magnitude less competent than they or that he could get in contact with the League themselves, he felt the sharp, slapping cold of ocean water slashing at his nerves, dragging him into the depths. He was used to tagging museum guards with paintballs and stealing priceless portraits, not fighting supervillains. He never even had it in him to talk to Nick Necro, to even ask if he could step out. He hadn't taken a single breath since Jules gave his speech when he felt his jackhammer heart quake against his lungs, as his stale blood and spent air tripped over each other's feet in a race to get the fuck out of his chest. In his minds eye, he could see himself turning blue. Maybe the others could, too.
He didn't say anything. He hoped to high heavens that Eilidh couldn't feel the goosebumps boiling out of his blazing flesh. He cranked his neck back, exhaled quickly, louder than he would've chosen if he'd thought about it, before taking a slow, conservative ration of air to try and force himself to cool off. As his thumbs twiddled against the rainbow dots stitched across his polo, he clenched his eyes, pursed his lips and asked himself a simple question.
This is what you're here for. Isn't it?
By the end of today, he supposed, he'd have his answer. If he wasn't up to it it'd sort itself out. He'd either die a nobody, bitch out, or maybe, just maybe--become a superhero. That stupid thought was all it took to pierce the oxygen starved smog that clouded his mind, shattering the windows to his soul like a baseball. Hurling his eyelids open, he took a deep breath and put one foot in front of the other, marching off into his room, slipping into the familiar tights, and donning the guise of THE RAINBOW RAIDER!
With a casual stretch of his arms, he pulsed off a prismatic puff of light that toasted his floorboards, spraying a zealous hoard of crispy snarkling hard light sparkles like droplets spurting out of a garden hose, warping the finish on the mahogany panels like marshmallows over a spit. And he took another step. And another step. He took so many steps forward that in two minutes flat he was standing downstairs in costume with everyone else, not looking the least bit cowardly.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "given that I both crackle colors kaleidoscopically and have a protective aura, it makes sense that I should be the distraction if we need one. Mind you, I'm not really much for violence and, once I've drawn the attention of our felonious foes, would greatly appreciate it if one of you fine fellows would prevent them cracking me in half like a rainbow egg to see if the carpets match the drapes. With all that said, I should probably not go first."